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I 






















. • 











































. 







- 









THE DAY OF TEMPTATION 








































































































' 







« 























« 






























































“I WON'T SEE A WOMAN MURDERED IN THAT COWARDLY MANNER, 
HE SAID VEHEMENTLY, “EVEN IF YOU ARE MY MASTER.” 

THE DAY OF TEMPTATION. 

Frontispiece. 


THE DAY OF 
TEMPTATION 


•/“ Y 

WILLIAM LE QUEUX 

AUTHOR OF “IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE,” 
“THE EYE OF ISTAR,” “ WHOSO FINDETH 
A WIFE,” “ZORAIDA,” “ DEVIL’S DICE,” 
ETC., ETC 



NEW YORK: 

G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers, 


MDCCCXCIX, 


4) 



39580 

COPYRIGHT IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX, 1898. 
COPYRIGHT;; 1899 B,Y G. ^ D^NGHAM CO. 



b 'a 'S'Xc? 


Hovels b\> TKUtlUam %e djueus. 

IF SINNERS ENTICE THEE 
THE DAY OF TEMPTATION 
THE BOND OF BLACK 
OF ROYAL BLOOD 


\ 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Aliens 9 

II. The Silver Greyhound 19 

III. One of a Crowd 26 

IV. “The Major” 34 

V. Tristram at Home 42 

VI. In Tuscany 49 

VII. Doctor Malvano 60 

VIII. Her Ladyship's Secret 68 

IX. Beneath the Red, White, and Blue . . 77 

X. The Mystery of Gemma .... 85 

XI. Silence is Best 96 

XII. A Word with His Excellency . . .105 

XIII. A Discovery in Ebury Street . . .115 

XIV. The Doctor’s Story 125 

XV. The Shadow . 134 

XVI. “Traitors die Slowly” 143 

XVII. Smayle’s Dilemma 154 

XVIII. What Lady Marshfield knew . . .164 

XIX. A Secret Despatch 174 

XX. “The Gobbo” 184 

vii 


Contents 


viii 


CHAPTER 

XXL 

At Lyddington . 


# 


• 

# 

PAGE 

191 

XXII. 

The Unknown 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

208 

XXIII. 

A Ruler of Europe . 

• 

a 

• 

• 

• 

215 

XXIV. 

By Stealth . * 

9 

• 

« 

• 

• 

225 

XXV. 

A Woman's Diplomacy 

• 

• 


• 

. 

233 

XXVI. 

The Palazzo Funaro 

• 

• 


a 

. 

243 

XXVII. 

On the Night Wind 

. 

• 


• 

. 

253 

XXVIII. 

The Trick of a Trickster 

• 


• 

. 

264 

XXIX. 

Entrapped . 

a 

K 

• 



275 

XXX. 

“I bear Witness !” . 

* 

6 

m 

V 

. 

2 77 

XXXI. 

Fiori d’Arancio « 

• 

n 

S 

a 

• 

289 


lie Day of Temptation 

r A STORY ; OF TWO CITIES . 


CHAPTER I 

ALIENS 

“One fact is plain. Vittorina must not come to 
England.” 

“Why? She, a mere inexperienced girl, knows 
nothing.” 

“Her presence here will place us in serious jeop- 
ardy. If she really intends to visit London, then I 
shall leave this country at once. I scent danger.” 

“As far as I can see, we have nothing whatever to 
fear. She doesn’t know half a dozen words of Eng- 
lish, and London will be entirely strange to her after 
Tuscany.” 

The face of the man who, while speaking, had 
raised his wine-glass was within the zone of light cast 
by the pink-shaded lamp. He was about twenty- 
eight, with dark eyes, complexion a trifle sallow, well- 
arched brows, and a dark moustache carefully waxed, 
the points being trained in an upward direction. In 
his well-cut evening clothes, Arnoldo Romanelli was 
a handsome man, a trifle foppish perhaps; yet his 
features, with their high cheek-bones, bore the un- 
mistakable stamp of Southern blood, while in his eyes 
was that dark brilliance which belongs alone to the 
sons of Italy. 


B 


IO 


Aliens 


He selected some grapes from the silver fruit-dish, 
filled a glass with water and dipped them in — true- 
bred Tuscan that he was — shook them out upon his 
plate, and then calmly contemplated the old blue 
Etruscan scarabseus on the little finger of his left 
hand. He was waiting for his companion to continue 
the argument. 

The other, twenty years his senior, was ruddy-faced 
and clean-shaven, with a pair of eyes that twinkled mer- 
rily, square jaws denoting considerable determination, 
altogether a typical Englishman of the buxom, burly, 
sport-loving kind. Strangely enough, although no 
one would have dubbed Dr. Filippo Malvano a for- 
eigner, so thoroughly British was his appearance, yet 
he was an alien. Apparently he was in no mood for 
conversation, for the habitual twinkle in his eyes had 
given place to a calm, serious look, and he slowly 
selected a cigar, while the silence which had fallen 
between them still remained unbroken. 

The man who hau expressed confidence again raised 
his glass to his lips slowly, regarded his companion 
curiously across its edge, and smiled grimly. 

The pair were dining together in a large, comfort- 
able but secluded house lying back from the road at 
the further end of the quaint, old-world village of 
Lyddington, in Rutland. The long windows of the 
dining-room opened out upon the spacious lawn, the 
extent of which was just visible in the faint mystic 
light of the August evening, showing beyond a great 
belt of elms, the foliage of which rustled softly in the 
fresh night wind, and still further lay the open, un- 
dulating country. Ever and anon the wind, in soft 
gusts, stirred the long lace curtains within the room, 
and in the vicinity the sweet, mellow note of the 
nightingale broke the deep stillness of rural peace. 

Romanelli ate his grapes deliberately, while the 
Doctor, lighting his long Italian cigar at the candle the 
servant handed him, rested both elbows on the table 
and puffed away slowly, still deep in contemplation. 


Aliens 


ii 


“Surely this girl can be stopped, if you really 
think there is danger/' the younger man observed at 
last. 

At that instant a second maid entered, and in order 
that neither domestics should understand the drift of 
their conversation, the Doctor at once dropped into 
Italian, answering — 

“I don't merely think there's danger; I absolutely 
know there is." 

“What? You've been warned?" inquired Arnoldo. 
quickly. 

The elder man raised his brows and slowly inclined 
his head. 

Romanelli sprang to his feet in genuine alarm. His 
face had grown pale in an instant. 

“Good heavens !" he gasped in his own tongue. 
“Surely the game has not been given away?" 

The Doctor extended his palms and raised his 
shoulders to his ears. When he spoke Italian, he 
relapsed into all his native gesticulations, but in 
speaking English he had no accent, and few foreign 
mannerisms. 

The two maid-servants regarded the sudden alarm 
of their master's guest from London with no little 
astonishment; but the Doctor, quick-eyed, noticed it, 
and, turning to them, exclaimed in his perfect 
English — 

“You may both leave. I’ll ring, if I require any- 
thing more." 

As soon as the door had closed, Arnoldo, leaning on 
the back of his chair, demanded further details from 
his host. He had only arrived from London an hour 
before, and, half-famished, had at once sat down to 
dinner. 

“Be patient," his host said in a calm, strained tone 
quite unusual to him. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you/' 

Arnoldo obeyed, sinking again into his chair, his 
dark brows knit, his arms folded on the table, his 
eyes fixed upon those of the Doctor. 


12 


Aliens 


Outwardly there was nothing very striking about 
either, beyond the fact that they were foreigners of a 
well-to-do-class. The English of the elder man was 
perfect, but that of Romanelli was ungrammatical, 
and in both faces a keen observer might have 
noticed expressions of cunning and craftiness. Any 
Italian would have at once detected, from the manner 
Romanelli abbreviated his words when speaking 
Italian, that he came from the Romagna, that wild 
hot-bed of lawlessness and anarchy lying between 
Florence and Forli, while his host spoke pure Tuscan, 
the language of Italy. The words they exchanged 
were deep and earnest. Sometimes they spoke softly, 
when the Doctor would smile and stroke his smooth- 
shaven chin, at others they conversed with a volu- 
bility that sounded to English ears as though they 
were quarrelling. 

The matter under discussion was certainly a 
strangely secret one. 

The room was well-furnished in genuine old oak, 
which bore no trace of the Tottenham Court Road; 
the table was adorned with exotics, and well laid 
with cut-glass and silver; while the air which entered 
by the open windows was refreshing after the heat 
and burden of the August day. 

“The simple fact remains, that on the day Vittorina 
sets foot in London the whole affair must become 
public property/' said Malvano, seriously, dipping his 
fingers into the crimson bowl beside him. 

“And then?" 

“Well, safety lies in flight," the elder man answered, 
slowly gazing round the room. “I'm extremely 
comfortable here, and have no desire to go wandering 
again; but if this girl really comes, England cannot 
shelter both of us." 

Romanelli looked grave, knit his brows, and slowly 
twirled the ends of his small waxed moustache. 

“But how can we prevent her?" he inquired after a 
pause* 


Aliens 


13 


“I’ve been endeavouring to solve that problem for a 
fortnight past,” his host answered. '‘While Vittorina 
is still in Italy, and has no knowledge of my address, 
we are safe enough. She’s the only person who can 
expose us. As for myself, leading the life of a coun- 
try practitioner, I’m respected by the whole neighbour- 
hood, dined by the squire and the parson, and no sus- 
picion of mystery attaches to me. I’m buried here as 
completely as though I were in my grave.” 

The trees rustled outside, and the welcome breeze 
stirred the curtains within, causing the lamp to flicker. 

"Yet you fear Vittorina!” observed the younger 
man, puzzled. 

"It seems that you have no memory of the past,” 
the other exclaimed, a trifle impatiently. "Is it im- 
perative to remind you of the events on a certain night 
in a house overlooking the sea of Livorno; of the 
mystery ” 

"Basta !” cried the younger man, frowning, his eyes 
shining with unnatural fire. "Can I ever forget them? 
Enough! All is past. It does neither of us good to 
rake up that wretched affair. It is over and for- 
gotten.” 

"No, scarcely forgotten,” the Doctor said in a low, 
impressive tone. "Having regard to what occurred, 
don’t you think that Vittorina had sufficient incentive 
to expose us?” 

"Perhaps,” Romanelli answered in a dry, dubious 
tone. "I, however, confess myself sanguine of our 
success. Certainly you, as an English country doctor, 
who is half Italian, and who has practised for years 
among the English colony in Florence, have but very 
little to fear. You are eminently respectable.” 

The men exchanged smiles. Romanelli glanced at 
his ring, and thought the ancient blue scarabseus had 
grown darker — a precursory sign of evil. 

"Yes,” answered Malvano, with deliberation, "I 
know I’ve surrounded myself with an air of the most 
severe respectability, and I flatter myself that the 


14 


Aliens 


people here little dream of my true position; but that 
doesn't affect the serious turn events appear to be 
taking. We have enemies, my dear fellow — bitter 
enemies — in Florence, and as far as I can discern, 
there's absolutely no way of propitiating them. We 
are, as you know, actually within an ace of success, 
yet this girl can upset all our plans, and make English 
soil too sultry for us ever to tread it again." A second 
time he glanced around his comfortable dining-room, 
and sighed at the thought of having to fly from that 
quiet rural spot where he had so ingeniously hidden 
himself. 

“It was to tell me this, I suppose, that you wired 
this morning?" his guest said, taking a cigar from the 
box. 

The other nodded, adding, “I had a letter last night 
from Paolo. He has seen Vittorina." 

“In Florence?" 

“No, at Livorno. She's there for the sea-bathing." 

“What did she say?" 

“That she intended to travel straight to London." 

“She gave him no reason, I suppose?" Arnoldo 
asked anxiously. 

“Can we not easily guess the reason?" the Doctor 
replied, raising his brows expressively. , “If you only 
reflect upon the events of that memorable night, you 
will at once recognize the extreme importance that she 
should be prevented from coming to this country." 

Romanelli nodded, and lit his cigar in silence. 

“Yes. You are right," he observed at last, in a tone 
of conviction. “I see it all. We are in peril. Vit- 
torina must not come." 

“Then the next point to consider is how we can 
prevent her," the Doctor said. 

A silence, deep and complete, fell between them. 
The trees rustled, the clock ticked slowly and solemnly, 
and the nightingale filled the air with its sweet note. 

“The only way out of the difficulty that I can see 
is for me to hazard everything, return to Livorno, and 


Aliens - 15 

endeavour by some means to compel her to remain in 
Italy.” 

'‘But can you?” 

Romanelli shrugged his shoulders. "There is a risk, 
of course, but I’ll do my best,” he answered. "If I 
fail — well, then the game’s up, and you must fly.” 

"I would accompany you to Italy,” exclaimed the 
other, as he poured out some whisky and filled his 
glass from the syphon at his elbow, "but, as you are 
aware, beyond Modane the ground is too dangerous.” 

"Do you think they suspect anything at the 
Embassy ?” 

"I cannot tell. I called the other day when in 
London, and found the Ambassador quite as cordial 
as usual.” 

"But if he only knew the truth?” 

"He can only know through Vittorina,” answered 
the Doctor, quickly. "If she remains in Italy, he will 
still be in ignorance. The Ministry at Rome knows 
nothing, but her very presence here will arouse sus- 
picion.” 

"Then I’ll risk all, and go to Italy,” said the younger 
man decisively. "I don’t relish that long journey 
from Paris to Pisa this weather. Thirty-five hours is 
too long to be cramped up in that horribly stuffy 
slecping-car. Thank Heaven, they’ve lately taken to 
selling drinks on board”. 

"If you go, you must start to-morrow, and travel 
straight through,” urged the Doctor, earnestly. "Don’t 
break your journey, or she may have started before 
you reach Livorno;” 

"Very well,” his young companion answered, 
stretching himself a trifle wearily. "I’ll go right 
through, as you think it best. If I start from here at 
six to-morrow morning, I can leave Charing Cross at 
eleven, and catch the Rome express out of Paris at nine- 
fifteen to-morrow night. This is Friday. I shall be in 
Livorno on Monday morning. Shall I wire to Paolo ?” 

"No. Take him by surprise. You’ll have a far 


i6 


Aliens 


better chance of success,” urged the other; and, push- 
ing the decanter towards him, added, “Help yourself, 
and let's drink luck to your expedition/’ 

Romanelli obeyed, and both men, raising their glass- 
es, saluted each other in Italian. The younger man no 
longer wore the air of gay recklessness habitual to him, 
but took a gulp of the drink with a forced harsh laugh. 
In the eyes of the usually merry village doctor there 
was also an expression of doubt and fear. Romanelli 
was too absorbed in contemplating the risk of return- 
ing to Italy to notice the strange sinister expression 
which for a single instant settled upon his companion's 
face, otherwise he might not have been so ready to 
adopt all his suggestions. Upon the countenance of 
Doctor Malvano was portrayed at that moment an evil 
passion, and the strange glint in his eyes would in 
itself have been sufficient proof to the close observer 
that he intended playing his companion false. 

“Then you'll leave Seaton by the six-thirty, eh?” 
he inquired at last, after watching the smoke of his 
cigar curl slowly away through the zone of softly 
tempered light. 

Romanelli nodded. 

The Doctor touched the gong, and the maid entered. 

“Fletcher,” he said, “the Signore must be called at 
half-past five to-morrow. Tell Goodwin to have the 
trap ready to go to Seaton Station to catch the six- 
thirty.” 

The maid withdrew, and when the door had closed, 
Malvano, his elbows on the table, his cold gaze fixed 
upon his guest, suddenly asked in a low, intense 
voice — 

“Arnoldo, in this affair we must have no secrets 
from each other. Tell me the truth. Do you love 
Vittorina ?” 

The foppish young man started slightly, but quickly 
recovering himself, answered — 

“Of course not. What absurd fancy causes you to 
suggest that ?” 


Aliens 17 

“Well — she is very pretty, you know/’ the Doctor 
observed ambiguously, with a good-humoured smile. 

The young man looked sharply at his host. “You 
mean,” he said, “that I might make love to her, and 
thus prevent her from troubling us, eh?” 

The other nodded in the affirmative, adding, “You 
might even marry her.” 

At that instant the maid entered, bearing a telegram 
which a lad on a cycle had brought from Uppingham 
for the Doctor’s guest. 

The latter opened it, glanced at its few faintly- 
written words, then frowned and placed it in his pocket 
without comment. 

* “Bad news?” inquired Malvano. “You look a bit 
scared.” 

“Not at all; not at all,” he laughed. “Merely a 
little affair of the heart, that’s all;” and he laughed 
in a happy, self-satisfied way as he swallowed the 
remainder of his whisky. Arnoldo was fond of the 
society of the fair sex, therefore the Doctor, shrewd 
and quick of observation, was fully satisfied that the 
message was from one or other of his many feminine 
acquaintances. 

“Well, induce Vittorina to Delieve that you love 
her, and all will be plain-sailing,” he said. “You are 
just the sort of fellow who can fascinate a woman and 
compel her to act precisely as you wish. Exert on 
her all the powers you possess.” 

“I’m afraid it will be useless,” his companion 
answered in a dry, hopeless tone. 

“Bah ! Your previous love adventures have already 
shown you to be a past-master in the arts of flattery 
and flirtation. Make a bold bid for fortune, my dear 
fellow, and you’re bound to succeed. Come, let’s 
take a turn across the lawn; it’s too warm indoors 
to-night.” 

Romanelli uttered no word, but rose at his host’s 
bidding, and followed him out. He felt himself stag- 
gering, but, holding his breath, braced himself up 


i8 


Aliens 


and, struggling, managed to preserve an appearance 
of outward calm. 

How, he wondered, would Dr. Malvano act if he 
knew the amazing information which had just been 
conveyed to him? He drew a deep breath, set his 
lips tight, and shuddered. 

His cigar fell from his nerveless fingers upon the 
grass. 


CHAPTER II 


THE SILVER GREYHOUND 

On the same night as the Doctor and his guest were 
dining in the remote rural village, the express which 
had left Paris at midday was long overdue at Charing 
Cross. Friends awaited its arrival anxiously, for on 
the contents-bills of that evening's papers were the 
words, in alarming capitals, “Gale in the Channel,” 
and, although the train was timed to reach London at 
half-past seven, it was now already nine. 

The local services were ever and anon arriving and 
departing, and the whirl and bustle of the terminus, 
the hub of London, continued, as it ever does, amid 
much shouting, ringing of bells and roaring of engines, 
until at length those waiting on the arrival platform 
saw the first sign of the approaching mail from the 
Continent in the form of a Customs officer, who 
produced a key, opened the door of the smoke- 
blackened Customs House, and closed it after him. 
Presently a troop of porters assembled and folded 
their arms to gossip, more Customs officers entered 
and prepared to search passengers’ baggage for spirits, 
perfumes, and Tauchnitz editions, and at last the 
glaring headlights of the express were seen slowly 
crossing the bridge which spans the Thames. Within 
a couple of minutes all became bustle and confusion. 
The pale faces and disordered appearance of alight- 
ing passengers told plainly how rough had been 
J9 


20 


The Silver Greyhound 


the passage from Calais. Many were tweed-coated 
tourists returning from Switzerland or the Rhine, 
but there were others who, by their calm, unruffled 
demeanour, were unmistakably experienced travellers. 

Among the latter was a smart, military-looking man 
of not more than thirty-three, tall, dark, and slim, 
with a merry face a trifle bronzed, and a pair of dark 
eyes beaming with good humour. As he alighted 
from a first-class carriage he held up his hand and 
secured a hansom standing by, then handed out his 
companion, a well-dressed girl of about twenty-two, 
whose black eyes and hair, rather aquiline features 
and sun-browned skin, were sufficient evidence that 
she was a native of the South. Her dress, of some 
dark-blue material, bore the stamp of the first-class 
costumier; attached to her belt was the small satchel 
affected by foreign ladies when travelling ; her 
neat toque became her well; and her black hair, 
although a trifle awry after the tedious, uncomfort- 
able journey, still presented an appearance far 
neater than tnat of other bedraggled women around 
her. 

“Welcome to London !” he exclaimed in good 

Italian. 

For a moment she paused, gazing wonderingly 
about her at the great vaulted station, dazed by its 
noise, bustle, and turmoil. 

“And this is actually London!” she exclaimed. 
“Ah! what a journey! How thankful I am that it's 
all over, and I am here, in England at last !” 

“So am I,” he said, with a sigh of relief as he 
removed his grey felt hat to ease his head. They had 
only hand-baggage, and this having been quickly 
transferred to the cab, he handed her in. As . he 
placed his foot upon the step to enter the vehicle 
after her, a voice behind him suddenly exclaimed — 

“Hullo, Tristram! Back in London again?” 

He turned quickly, and recognized in the elderly, 
grey-haired, well-groomed man in frock-coat and silk 


The Silver Greyhound 


21 


hat his old friend Major Gordon Maitland, and shook 
him heartily by the hand. 

“Yes,” he answered. “London once again. But 
you know how I spend my life — on steamboats or in 
sleeping-cars. To-morrow I may start again for 
Constantinople. Tm the modern Wandering Jew.” 

“Execept that you’re not a Jew — eh?” the other 
laughed. “Well, travelling is your profession; and 
not a bad one either.” 

“Try it in winter, my dear fellow, when the ther- 
mometer is below zero,” answered Captain Frank 
Tristram, smiling. “You'd prefer the fireside corner 
at the club.” 

“Urgent business?” inquired the Major, in a lower 
tone, and with a meaning look. 

The other nodded. 

“Who's your pretty companion ?” Maitland asked in 
a low voice, with a quick glance at the girl in the cab. 

“She was placed under my care at Leghorn, and 
we've travelled through together. She's charming. 
Let me introduce you.” 

Then, approaching the conveyance, he exclaimed in 
Italian — 

“Allow me, signorina, to present my friend Major 
Gordon Maitland — the Signorina Vittorina Rinaldo.” 

“Your first visit to our country, I presume?” 
exclaimed the Major, in rather shaky Italian, noticing 
how eminently handsome she was. 

“Yes,” she answered, smiling, but regarding him 
with wide-open eyes, as if a trifle surprised. “I have 
heard so much of your great city, and am all anxiety 
to see it.” 

“I hope your sojourn among us will be pleasant. 
You have lots to see. How long shall you remain?” 

“Ah ! I do not know,” she answered, with a slight 
shrug of her shoulders. “A week — a month — a year 
— if need be.” 

The two men exchanged glances. The last words 
she uttered were spoken hoarsely, with strange 


The Silver Greyhound 


22 

intonation. They had not failed to notice a curious look 
in her eyes, a look of fierce determination. 

'‘Terribly hot in Leghorn/' observed Tristram, turn- 
ing the conversation after an awkward pause of a few 
moments. Vittorina held her breath. She saw how 
nearly she had betrayed herself. 

“It has been infernally hot here in London these past 
few days. Parliament is up, and the clubs are de- 
serted. I think I shall go abroad to-morrow. I feel 
like the last man ir town." 

“Go to Wiesbaden," Tristram said. “I was at the 
Rose ten days ago, and the season is in full swing. 
Not too hot, good casino, excellent cooking, and plenty 
of amusement. Try it." 

“No, I mink I’ll take a run through the Dolomites," 
he said. “But why have you been down to Leghorn? 
Surely it's off your usual track." 

“Yes, a little. The Ambassador is staying a few 
weeks for the sea-bathing at Ardenza, close to Leg- 
horn, and I had important despatches." 

“She's exceedingly good-looking," the Major said in 
English, with a smiling glance at the cab. “I envy you 
your travelling companion. You must have had quite 
an enjoyable time." 

“Forty hours in a sleeping-car is scarcely to be envied 
this weather," he answered, as a porter, recognizing 
him in passing, wished him a polite “Good journey, I 
hope, sir ?" 

Continuing, Tristram said, “But we must be off. 
I'm going to see her safe through to her friends before 
going to the office, and I'm already nearly three hours 
late in London. So good-bye." 

“Good-bye," the other said. “Shall I see you at the 
club to-night ?" 

“Perhaps. I'm a bit done up by the heat, but I 
want my letters, so probably I'll look in." 

“Buona sera, signorina," Maitland exclaimed, bend- 
ing towards the cab, shaking her hand, and raising his 
hat politely. 


The Silver Greyhound 


23 


She smiled, returning his salute in her own sweet, 
musical Tuscan, and then her companion, shouting an 
address in Hammersmith, sprang iri beside her, and 
they drove off. 

“You must be very tired,” he said, turning to her 
as they emerged from the station-yard into the busy 
Strand. 

“No, not so fatigued as I was when we arrived in 
Paris this morning,” she answered, gazing wonderingly 
at the long line of omnibuses and cabs slowly filing 
down the brightly lit thoroughfare. “But what con- 
fusion ! I thought the Via Calzaiuoli in Florence 

noisy, but this !” and she waved her small hand 

with a gesture far more expressive than any words. 

Frank Tristram, remarking that she would find 
London very different to Florence, raised his hand to 
his throat to loosen his collar, and in doing so dis- 
played something which had until that moment 
remained concealed. A narrow ribbon was hidden 
beneath his large French cravat of black silk tied in a 
bow. The colour was royal blue, and from it was 
suspended the British royal arms, surmounted by the 
crown, with a silver greyhound pendant, the badge 
known on every railway from Calais to Ekaterin- 
bourg, and from Stockholm to Reggio, as that of a 
Queen’s Foreign Service Messenger. Captain Frank 
Tristram was one of the dozen wanderers on the face 
of the earth whose swift journeys and prompness in 
delivering despatches have earned for them the title 
of “The Greyhounds of Europe.” 

Like all his colleagues, though bound to wear his 
badge when travelling on State business, he kept it 
concealed, and only exhibited it when necessary to 
convince a prying douanier that his baggage was 
exempt from Customs examination, or to secure pre- 
ference for a berth in a wagon-lit. According to 
Foreign Office regulations, Queen’s Messengers are 
bound to wear an elaborately braided uniform of dark 
blue; but of recent years this has been discarded, and 


24 


The Silver Greyhound 


one may often travel over French, German, or Italian 
railways with a pleasant Englishman of military 
bearing in a well-worn suit of dark tweed, entirely in 
ignorance that in his battered valise are secrets which 
certain Powers would willingly pay thousands to 
obtain. Sometimes the tiny blue ribbon strays from 
beneath the cravat and betrays its wearer. This, 
however, is seldom. The Queen’s Messenger, known 
as he is by all and sundry of the railway officials, 
always endeavours to conceal his true office from his 
fellow-passengers. 

So engrossed was the dark-haire ' girl in contem- 
plating her strange surroundings that she scarcely 
uttered a word as the cab sped on swiftly through 
the deepening twilight across Trafalgar Square, along 
Pall Mall, and up the Haymarket. Suddenly, how- 
ever, the blaze of electricity outside the Criterion 
brought to Frank Tristram’s mind cherished recollec- 
tions of whisky and soda, and, being thirsty after the 
journey, he shouted to the man to pull up there. 

“You, too, must be thirsty,” he said, turning to her. 
“At this cafe, I think, they keep some of your Italian 
drinks — vermouth, menthe, or muscato.” 

“Thank you — no,” she replied, smiling sweetly. 
“The cup of English tea I had at Dover did me good, 
and I’m really not thirsty. You go and get something, 
I’ll remain here.” 

“Very well,” he said. “I won’t be more than a 
minute;” and as the cab drew up close to the door of 
the bar, he sprang out and entered the long saloon. 

His subsequent movements were, however, somewhat 
curious. 

After walking to the further end of the bar, he 
ordered a drink, idled over it for some minutes, his 
eyes glancing furtively at the lights of the cab out- 
side. Suddenly, when he had uttered a few words to 
a passing acquaintance, he saw the vehicle move 
slowly on, probably under orders from the police ; and 
the instant he had satisfied himself that neither 


The Silver Greyhound 


25 


Vittorina nor the cabman could observe him, he 
drained his glass, threw down a shilling, and without 
waiting for the change turned and continued through 
the bar, making a rapid exit by the rear door 
leading into Jermyn Street. 

As he emerged, a hansom was passing, and, hailing 
it, he sprang in, shouted an address, and drove rapidly 
away. 

Meanwhile, the cabman who had driven him from 
Charing Cross sat upon his box patiently awaiting 
his return, now and then hailing the plethoric drivers 
of passing vehicles with sarcasm, as cab and ’bus 
drivers are wont to do, until fully twenty minutes had 
elapsed. Then, there being no sign of the reappear- 
ance of his fare, he opened the trap-door in the roof 
exclaiming — 

“Nice evenin’, miss.” 

There was no response. The man peered down 
eagerly for a moment, in surprise, then cried aloud — 

“By Jove ! She’s fainted !” 

Unloosing the strap which held him to his seat, he 
sprang down and entered the vehicle. 

The young girl was lying back in the corner inert 
and helpless, her hat awry, her pointed chin upon her 
chest. He pressed his hand to her breast, but there 
was no movement of the heart. He touched her 
ungloved hand. It was chilly, and the fingers were 
already stiffening. Her large black eyes were still 
open, glaring wildly into space, but her face was 
blanched to the lips. 

“Good heavens!” the cabman cried, stupefied, as 
in turning he saw a policeman standing on the kerb. 
“Quick, constable !” he shouted, beckoning the 
officer. “Quick ! Look here !” 

“Well, what’s the matter now?” the other inquired, 
approaching leisurely, his thumbs nitched in his belt. 

“The matter!” cried the cabman, whose features 
were white and scared. “Why, this lady I drove from 
Charin’ Cross is dead !” 


CHAPTER III 

ONE OF A CROWD 

Within half a minute a crowd had gathered around 
the cab, for at that hour Piccadilly Circus is the 
centre of London life. Half a dozen of the largest 
theatres and music-halls are within a stone’s throw of 
that open space, with its useless fountain, where so 
many of the principal thoroughfares converge, and the 
blaze of electricity, the ever-changing coloured adver- 
tisements, and the unceasing stream of idlers and 
pleasure-seekers render it the gayest spot in the giant 
metropolis. 

The instant the cabman raised the alarm the con- 
stable was joined by the burly door-opener of the 
Criterion in goaler-like uniform and the round-faced 
fireman, who, lounging together outside, were ever 
on the look-out for some diversion. But when the 
constable agreed with the cab-driver that the lady 
was dead, their ready chaff died from their lips. 

"What do you know of her?” asked the officer of 
the cab-driver. 

"Nothing, beyond the fact that I drove ’er from 
Charin’ Cross with a gentleman. She’s a foreigner, 
but he was English.” 

"Where is he?” demanded the constable, anxiously, 
at that moment being joined by two colleagues, to 
whom the fireman in a few breathless words explained 
the affair, 


36 


One of a Crowd 27 

“He went into the bar there ’arf an hour ago, but 
he ain’t come out/’ 

“Quick. Come with me, and let’s find him,” the 
officer said. 

Leaving the other policemen in charge of the cab, 
they entered, and walked down the long, garish bar, 
scrutinizing each of the hundred or so men loung- 
ing there. The cabman, however, saw nothing of his 
fare.* 

“He must have escaped by the back way,” observed 
the officer, disappointedly. “It’s a strange business, 
this.” 

“Extremely,” said the cab-driver. “The fellow 
must have murdered her, and then entered the place 
in order to get away. He’s a pretty cute ’un.” 

“It seems a clear case of murder,” exclaimed the 
other in a sharp, precise, business-like tone. “We’ll 
take her to the hospital first; then you must come 
with me to Vine Street at once.” 

When they emerged, they found that the crowd had 
already assumed enormous proportions. The news 
that a woman had been murdered spread instantly 
throughout the whole neighbourhood, and the surging 
crowd of idlers, all curiosity, pressed around the 
vehicle to obtain a glimpse of the dead woman’s face. 
Amid the crowd, elbowing his way fiercely and deter- 
minedly, was a man whose presence there was a some- 
what curious coincidence, having regard to what had 
previously transpired that evening. He wore a silk 
hat, his frock-coat was tightly buttoned, and he carried 
in his gloved hand a silver-mounted cane. After con- 
siderable difficulty, he obtained a footing in front of 
the crowd immediately behind the cordon the police 
had formed around the vehicle, and in a few moments 
by craning his neck forward, obtained an uninter- 
rupted view of the lady’s face. 

His teeth were firmlv set, but his calm countenance 
betrayed no sign of astonishment. For an instant he 
regarded the woman with a cold, impassive look, then 


28 


One of a Crowd 


quickly he turned away, glancing furtively right and 
left, and an instant later was lost in the surging, 
struggling multitude which a body of police were 
striving in vain to “move on.” 

The man who had thus gazed into the dead woman's 
face was the man to whom she had been introduced 
at the station, Major Gordon Maitland. 

Almost at the same moment when the Major turned 
away, the constable sprang into the cab beside the 
woman, and the driver, at once mounting the box, 
drove rapidly away along Coventry Street and across 
Leicester Square to Charing Cross Hospital. The 
excited, turbulent crowd opened a way for the vehicle 
to pass, but some of the more enthusiastic ones ran 
behind the vehicle, and did not leave it until the 
inanimate body had been carried up the steps and 
into the portals of that smoke- blackened institution. 

To the small, bare, whitewashed room to the left of 
the entrance hall, where casualties are received, the 
dark-haired girl was carried, and laid tenderly upon 
the leather-covered divan. The depressing place smelt 
strongly of disinfectants, the gas-jet hissed within its 
wire globe, and water slowly trickled from a tap into 
a basin of porcelain. Upon a shelf were half a dozen 
bottles containing drugs for immediate administration 
to alleviate pain or steady the nerves of the unfortu- 
nate ones, and a small cupboard opposite was filled 
with surgical instruments. With these exceptions, the 
room was perfectly bare. 

The dresser, who attended to minor accidents, gave 
a quick glance at the face of the new patient, and at 
once sent for the house-surgeon. He saw it was a 
grave case. 

Very soon the doctor, a thin, elderly man, entered 
briskly, asked a couple of questions of the constable 
outside in the corridor, unloosened her dress, cut the 
cord of her corsets, laid his hand upon her heart, felt 
her pulse, slowly moved her eyelids, and then shook 
his head. 


One of a Crowd 


29 

“Dead!” lie exclaimed. “She must have died 
nearly an hour ago.” 

Then he forced open her mouth, and turning the 
hissing gas-jet to obtain a full light, gazed into it. 

His grey, shaggy brows contracted, and the dresser 
standing by knew that his chief had detected some- 
thing which puzzled him. He felt the glands in her 
neck carefully, and pushing back the hair that had 
fallen over her brow, re-opened her fast-glazing eyes, 
and peered into them long and earnestly. 

He carefully examined the palm of her right hand, 
which was ungloved, then tried to remove the glove 
from the left, but in vain. He was obliged to rip it 
up with a pair of scissors. Afterwards he examined 
the hand minutely, giving vent to a grunt of dissatis- 
faction. 

“Is it murder, do you think, sir ?” the constable in- 
quired as the doctor emerged again. 

“There are no outward signs of violence,” answered 
the house-surgeon. “You had better take the body 
to the mortuary, and tell your inspector that I’ll make 
the post mortem to-morrow morning.” 

“Very well, sir.” 

“But you said that the lady was accompanied from 
Charing Cross Station by a gentleman, who rode in 
the cab with her,” the doctor continued. “Where is 
he?” 

“He alighted, entered the Criterion, and didn’t 
come back,” explained the cabman. 

“Suspicious of foul play — very suspicious,” the 
doctor observed, his brows still knit. “To-morrow 
we shall know the truth. She’s evidently a lady, and, 
by her dress, a foreigner.” 

“She arrived by the Paris mail to-night,” the cab- 
man observed. 

“Well, it must be left to the police to unravel what- 
ever mystery surrounds her. It is only for us to 
ascertain the cause of death — whether natural, or by 
foul means;” and he went back to where the dead 


30 


One of a Crowd 


woman was lying still and cold, her dress disarranged 
her dark hair fallen dishevelled, her sightless eyes 
closed in the sleep that knows no awakening until the 
Great Day. 

The cabman stood with his hat in his hand; the 
constable had hung his helmet on his forearm by its 
strap. 

“Then, outwardly, there are no signs of murder ?” 
the latter asked, disappointed perhaps tnat the case 
was not likely to prove so sensational as it had at 
first appeared. 

“Tell your inspector that at present I can give no 
opinion,” the surgeon replied. “Certain appearances 
are mysterious. To-night I can say nothing more. 
At the inquest I shall be able to speak more confi- 
dently.” 

As he spoke, his cold, grey eyes were still fixed 
upon the lifeless form, as if held by some strange 
fascination. Approaching the cupboard, he took from 
a case a small lancet, and raising the dead woman’s 
arm, made a slight incision in the wrist. For a few 
moments he watched it intently, bending and holding 
her wrist full in the glaring gaslight within two 
inches of his eyes. 

Suddenly he let the limp, inert arm drop, and with 
a sigh turned again to the two men who stood 
motionless, watching, and said — 

“Go. Take the body to the mortuary. I have yet 
much to do for the living to-night. IT1 examine her 
to-morrow;’ and he rang for the attendants, who 
came, lifted the body from the couch, and conveyed it 
out, to admit a man who lay outside groaning, with 
his leg crushed. 

Half an hour later the cab-driver and the constable 
stood in the small upper room at Vine Street Police 
Station, the office of the Inspector of the Criminal 
Investigation Department attached to that station. 
Inspector Elmes, a dark-bearded, stalwart man of 
forty-five, sat at a table, while behind him, arranged 


One of a Crowd 


3 * 


over the mantel-shelf, were many photographs of 
criminals, missing persons, and people who had been 
found dead in various parts of the metropolis, and 
whose friends had not been traced. Pinned against 
the grey-painted walls were several printed notices 
offering rewards, some with portraits of absconding 
persons, others with crude woodcuts of stolen jewels. 
It was a bare, carpetless room, but eminently business- 
like. 

“Well,” the Inspector was saying to the constable 
as he leant back in his chair, “there’s some mystery 
about the affair, you think — eh? Are there any signs 
of murder?” 

“No, sir,” the man answered. “At present the doc- 
tor has discovered nothing.” 

“Then, until he has, our Department can’t deal with 
it,” replied the detective. “Why has your Inspector 
sent you up here ?” 

“Because it’s so mysterious, I suppose, sir.” 

“She may have had a fit — most probable, I should 
think. Until the doctor has certified, I don’t see any 
necessity to stir. It’s more than possible that when 
the man who left her at the Criterion reads of her 
death in the papers, he’ll come forward, identify her, 
and clear himself.” Then, turning to the cabman, he 
asked, “What sort of man was he — an Englishman ?” 

“Well, I really don’t know, sir. He spoke to the 
dead girl in her own language, yet I thought, when he 
spoke to his friend at the station, that his English 
was that of a foreigner. Besides, he looked like a 
Frenchman, for he wore a large bow for a tie, which 
no Englishman wears.” 

“You think him a foreigner because of his tie — 
eh?” the detective observed, smiling. “Now, if you 
had noticed his boots with a critical eye, you might 
perhaps have accurately determined his nationality. 
Look at a man’s boots next time.” 

Then, taking up his pen, he drew a piece of pale 
yellow official paper before him, noted the number 


32 


One of a Crowd 


of the cabman's badge, inquired his name and ad- 
dress, and asked several other questions, aftrwards 
dismissing both men with the observation that until 
a verdict had been given in the Coroner's Court, he 
saw no reason to institute further inquiries. 

Two days later the inquest was held in a small 
room at St. Martin's Town Hall, the handsome 
building overlooking Trafalgar Square, and, as may 
be imagined, was largely attended by representatives 
of the Press. All the sensationalism of London 
evening journalism had, during the two days inter- 
vening, been let loose upon the mysterious affair, and 
the remarkable “latest details" had been “worked 
up" into an amazing, but utterly fictitious story. 
One paper, in its excess of zeal to out-distance all its 
rivals in sensationalism, had hinted that the dead 
woman was actually the daughter of an Imperial 
House, and this had aroused public curiosity to 
fever-heat. 

When the usual formalities of constituting the 
Court had been completed, the jury had viewed the 
body, and the cabman had related his strange story, 
the Coroner, himself a medical man, dark-bearded and 
middle-aged, commenced a close cross-examination. 

“Was it French or Italian the lady spoke?" he 
asked. 

“I don't know the difference, sir," the cabman 
admitted. “The man with her spok^ just as quickly 
as she did." 

“Was there anything curious in the demeanour of 
either of them ?" 

“I noticed nothing strange. The gentleman told 
me to drive along Pall Mall and the Haymarket, or of 
course I'd 'ave taken the proper route, up Charin'- 
Cross Road and Leicester Square." 

"You would recognize this gentleman again, I sup- 
pose ?" the Coroner asked. 

“I’d know him among ten thousand," the man 
promptly replied. 


One of a Crowd 


33 


Inspector Elmes, who was present on behalf of the 
Criminal Investigation Department, asked several 
questions through the Coroner, when the latter after- 
wards resumed his cross-examination. 

“You have told us,” he said, “that just before 
entering the cab the gentleman was accosted by a 
friend. Did you hear any of their conversation?” 

“I heard the missing man address the other as 
‘Major/ ” the cabman replied, fingering the metal 
badge displayed upon the breast of his faded coat. 
“He introduced the Major to the lady, but I was 
unable to catch either of their names. When you’re 
seated on your box, you can’t hear much in a noisy 
station. The two men seemed very glad to meet, but, 
on the other hand, my gentleman seemed in a great 
hurry to get away.” 

“You are certain that this man you know as the 
Major did not arrive by the same train, eh?” asked 
the Coroner, glancing sharply up from the paper 
whereon he was writing the depositions of this 
important witness. 

“I am certain; for I noticed him lounging up and 
down the platform fully ’arf an hour before the train 
came in.” 

“Then you think he must have been awaiting his 
friend?” 

“No doubt he was, sir, for as soon as I drove the 
lady and gentleman away, he, too, started to walk out 
of the station.” 

Then the Coroner, having written a f&w more 
words upon the foolscap before him, turned to the 
jury, exclaiming — 

“This last statement of the witness, gentlemen, 
seems, to say the least, curious.” 

In an instant all present were on tiptoe with excite- 
ment, wondering what startling facts were likely to be 
revealed. 


CHAPTER IV, 


“the major” 

No further questions were put to the cab-driver at 
this juncture, but medical evidence was at once taken. 
Breathless stillness pervaded the court, for the state- 
ment about to be made would put an end to all 
rumour, and the truth would be known. 

When the dapper elderly man had stepped up to 
the table and been sworn, the Coroner, in the quick, 
business-like tone which he always assumed towards 
his fellow medical men, said — 

“You are Dr. Charles Wyllie, house-surgeon, Char- 
ing Cross Hospital ?” 

“I am,” the ether answered in a correspondingly dry 
tone, while the Coroner wrote the witness’s 
name. 

“The woman was brought to the hospital, I sup- 
pose?” 

“Yes, the police brought her, but she had already 
been dead about three-quarters of an hour. There 
were no ex^rnal marks of violence, and her appear- 
ance was as though she had died suddenly from 
natural causes. In conjunction with Dr. Hender- 
son, I yesterday made a careful post-mortem. The 
body is that of a healthy woman of about twenty- 
three, evidently an Italian. There was no trace 
whatever of organic disease. From what I noticed 
when the body was brought to the hospital, however. 
34 . 


“The Major” 35 

1 asked the police to let it remain untouched until I 
was ready to make a post-mortem.” 

“Did you discover anything which might lead to 
suspicion of foul play?” inquired the Coroner. 

“I made several rather curious discoveries/’ the 
doctor answered, whereat those in court shifted 
uneasily, prepared for some thrilling story of how 
the woman was murdered. “First, she undoubtedly 
died from paralysis oi the heart . Secondly, I found 
around the left ankle a curious tattoo-mark in the 
form of a serpent with its tail in its mouth. It is 
beautifully executed, evidently by an expert tattooist. 
Thirdly, there was a white mark upon the left breast, 
no doubt the scar of a knife-wound, which I judged 
to have been inflicted about two years ago. The 
knife was probably a long narrow-bladed one, and 
the bone had prevented the blow proving fatal.” 

“Then a previous attempt had been made upon her 
life, you think?” asked the Coroner, astonished. 

“There is no doubt about it,” the doctor answered. 
“Such a wound could never have been caused by 
accident. It had no doubt received careful surgical 
attention, judging from the cicatrice.” 

“But this had nothing to do with her death?” the 
Coroner suggested. 

“Nothing whatever,” replied the doctor. “The ap- 
pearance of the body gives no indication of foul play.” 

“Then you assign death to natural causes — eh ?” 

“No, I do not,” responded Dr. Wyllie, deliberately, 
after a slight pause. “The woman was murdered.” 

These words produced a great sensation in the 
breathlessly silent court. 

“By what means?” 

“That I have utterly failed to discover. All 
appearances point to the fact that the deceased lost 
consciousness almost instantly, for she had no time 
even to take out her handkerchief or smelling-salts, 
the first thing a woman does when she feels faint. 
Death came very swiftly, but the ingenious means by 


36 


“The Major” 


which the murder was accomplished are at present 
entirely a mystery. At first my suspicions were 
aroused by a curious discoloration of the mouth, 
which I noticed when I first saw the body; but, 
strangely enough, this had disappeared yesterday 
when I made the post-mortem. Again, in the centre 
of the left palm, extending to the middle finger, was 
a dark and very extraordinary spot. This I have 
examined microscopically, and submitted the skin to 
various tests, but have entirely failed to determine 
the cause of the mark. It is dark grey in colour, and 
altogether mysterious.” 

“There was no puncture in the hand?” inquired 
the Coroner. 

“None whatever. I examined the body thoroughly, 
and found not a scratch,” the doctor answered quickly. 
“At first I suspected a subcutaneous injection of 
poison; but this theory is negatived by the absence 
of any puncture.” 

“But you adhere to your first statement that she 
was murdered ?” 

“Certainly. I am confident that the paralysis is 
not attributable to natural causes.” 

“Have you found any trace of poison ?” 

“The contents of the stomach were handed over by 
the police to the analyst. I cannot say what he has 
reported,” the doctor answered sharply. 

At once the Coroner’s officer interposed with the 
remark that the analyst was present, and would give 
evidence. 

The foreman of the jury then put several questions 
to the doctor, in order to justify his election at the 
head of the dozen Strand tradesmen. Foremen of 
juries are fond of cross-examining witnesses, although 
they never elicit any fresh fact, for witnesses hold a 
Coroner’s jury in supreme contempt, and resent their 
endavours to obtain a clear narrative. In this case, 
however, the foreman was a keen observer, and a 
shrewd man of business. 


: The Major" 


37 


“Do you think, doctor/" he asked, “that it would be 
possible to murder a woman while she was sitting in a 
cab in so crowded a place as Piccadilly Circus ?"" 

“The greater the crowd, the less the chance of de- 
tection, I believe."" 

“Have you formed no opinion how this assassina- 
tion was accomplished? Is there absolutely nothing 
which can serve as clue to the manner in which this 
mysterious crime was perpetrated?"" 

“Absolutetly nothing beyond what I have already 
explained,"" the witness answered. “The grey mark 
is on the palm of the left hand, which at the time of 
the mysterious occurrence was gloved. On the hand, 
which was ungloved, there is no mark. I therefore 
am of opinion that this curious discoloration is evi- 
dence in some way or other of murder."" 

“Was she a lady?"" inquired another juryman. 

“She had every evidence of being so. All her 
clothing was of first-class quality, and the four rings 
she wore were of considerable value. When I came 
to make the post-mortem, I found both hands and 
feet slightly swollen, therefore it was impossible to 
remove her rings without cutting."" 

“Do you wish to ask the doctor any further 
questions?"" inquired the Coroner of the jury, a trifle 
impatiently. 

There was no response, therefore he asked the 
witness to sign his depositions, and afterwards wished 
him “good day,"" thanking him for his attendance. 

The evidence of Dr. Slade, Analyst to the Home 
Office, being brief, was quickly disposed of. He 
stated that he had submitted the contents of the 
stomach to analysis for poison, but had failed to find 
trace of anything baneful. It was apparent that the 
woman had not eaten anything for many hours, but 
that was, of course, accounted for by the fact that she 
had been travelling. His evidence entirelv dismissed 
the theory of poison, although Dr. Wyllie had 
asserted most positively that death had resulted from 


3 § 


“The Major” 


the administration of some substance which had 
proved so deadly as to cause her to lose consciousness 
almost instantly, and produce paralysis of the heart. 

Certainly the report of the analyst did not support 
the doctor's theory. Dr. Wyllie was one of the last 
persons to indulge unduly in any sensationalism, and 
the Coroner, knowing him well through many years, 
was aware that there must be some very strong basis 
for his theory before he would publicly express his 
conviction that the woman had actually been murdered. 
Such a statement, when published in the Press in two 
or three hours' time, would, he knew, give the doctor 
wide notoriety as a sensation-monger — the very thing 
he detested above everything. But the fact remained 
that on oath Dr. Wyllie had declared that the fair, 
unknown foreigner had been foully and most in- 
geniously murdered. If this were really so, then the 
culprit must be a past-master in the art of assassina- 
tion. Of all the inquiries the Coroner had held during 
many years of office, this certainly was one of the 
most sensational and mysterious. 

When the analyst had concluded, a smartly-dressed 
young woman, named Arundale, was called. She 
stated that she was a barmaid at the Criterion, and 
related how the unknown man, whose appearance 
she described, had entered the bar, called for a whisky 
and soda, chatted with her for a few minutes, and 
then made his exit by the other door. 

“Did he speak to any one else while in the bar?” 
asked the Coroner. 

“Yes, while he was talking to me, an older, well- 
dressed man entered rather hurriedly. The gentleman 
speaking to me appeared very surprised — indeed, 
almost alarmed. Then, drawing aside so that I should 
not overhear, they exchanged a few hurried words, 
and the elder left by the back exit, refusing the 
other’s invitation to drink. The younger man glanced 
at his watch, then turned, finished his whisky leisurely, 
and chatted to me again. I noticed that he was 


“The Major” 


39 


watching the front door all the time, but believing 
him to be expecting a friend, when, suddenly wishing 
me a hasty 'Good-night/ he threw down a shilling 
and left.” 

“What sort of .man was it who spoke to him?” 
inquired the Coroner, quickly. 

“He was a military man, for I heard him addressed 
as ‘Major/ ” 

“Curious !” the Coroner observed, turning to the 
jury. “The cab-driver in his evidence says that a 
certain Major met the pair at Charing Cross Station. 
It may have been the same person. This coincidence 
is certainly striking, and one which must be left to 
the police to investigate. We have it in evidence 
that the woman and her companion drove away in 
the cab, leaving the Major — whoever he may be — 
standing on the platform. The pair drove straight 
to the Criterion; yet five minutes later the woman's 
companion was joined by another Major, who is 
apparently one and the same. Is there anything 
further, gentlemen, you wish to ask the witness ?” 

There was no response, therefore the Coroner 
dismissed her. 

The constable who took the body to the hospital 
then related how, while on duty in Piccadilly Circus, 
he had been called to the cab, and found the woman 
dead. Afterwards, he had searched the pockets of 
the deceased, and taken possession of the lady's 
dressing-case and the man's hand-bag — all the luggage 
they had with them in addition to their wraps. He 
produced the two bags, with their contents, objects 
which excited considerable interest throughout the 
room. In the man's bag was a suit of dress-clothes, 
a small dressing-case, and one or two miscellaneous 
articles, but nothing by which the owner could be 
traced. 

“Well, what did you find in the lady's pockets? 
Anything to lead to her identity?” the Coroner asked 
at last. 


40 


“The Major” 


“No, sir. In addition to a purse containing some 
English money, I found a key, a gentleman’s card 
bearing the name 'Arnoldo Romanelli,’ and a small 
crucifix of ivory and silver. In the dressing-case, 
which you will see is fitted with silver and ivory 
fittings,” he continued, opening it to the gaze of the 
jury, “there are a few valuable trinkets, one or two 
articles of attire, and a letter written in Italian ” 

“I have the letter here,” interrupted the Coroner, 
addressing the jury. “It’s translation reads as 
follows : — 

“ 'Dear Vittorina, 

“ 'Be extremely cautious if you really mean 
to go to England. It is impossible for me to ac- 
company you, or I would; but you know my presence 
in Italy is imperative. You will easily find Bonciani’s 
Cafe, in Regent Street. Remember, at the last table 
on the left every Monday at five. 

“ 'With every good wish for a pleasant journey, 

“ 'Egisto/ 

“The letter, which has no envelope,” added the 
Coroner, “is dated from Lucca, a town in Tuscany, 
a week ago. It may possibly assist the police in 
tracing friends of the deceased.” Then, turning to 
the constable, he asked, “Well, what else was in the 
lady’s bag?” 

“This photograph,” answered the officer, holding up 
a cabinet photograph. 

“Why!” cried the cab-driver, who had taken a 
seat close to where the policeman was standing. 
“Why, that’s a photograph of the Major!” 

“Yes,” added the barmaid, excitedly, “that’s the 
same man who came up to the gentleman while he 
was speaking to me. Without doubt that’s the Major, 
and an excellent portrait, too.” 

“Strange that this, of all things, should be in the 
dead woman’s possession, when we have it in evidence 


“The Major” 


4i 


that she was introduced to him only half an hour 
before her death,” observed the Coroner, with a 
significant glance at the jury. “Very strange indeed. 
Every moment the mystery surrounding this unknown 
woman seems to grow more impenetrable.” 


CHAPTER y 


TRISTRAM AT HOME 

Most of the London papers, from the quiescent Globe 
to the versatile Star , that evening gave verbatim 
accounts of the inquest, and in every quiet suburban 
road the hoarse, strident shout of the running news- 
man awakened the echoes with the cry, “Criterion 
mystery! Startlin’ statement! Verdict!” The jury, 
after a long deliberation, had returned an open verdict 
of “Found dead.” In the opinion of the twelve 
Strand tradesmen, there was insufficient evidence to 
justify a verdict of murder, therefore they had con- 
tented themselves in leaving the matter in the hands 
of the police. They had, in reality, accepted the 
evidence of the analyst in preference to the theory 
of the doctor, and had publicly expressed a hope that 
the authorities at Scotland Yard would spare no pains 
in their endeavours to discover the deceased’s fellow- 
traveller, if he did not come forward voluntarily and 
establish her identity. 

This verdict practically put an end to the mystery 
created by the sensational section of the evening Press, 
for although it was not one of natural causes, actual 
murder was not alleged. Therefore, amid the diversity 
of the next day’s news, the whirling world of London 
forgot, as it ever forgets, the sensation of the previous 
day. All interest had been lost in the curious circum- 
stances surrounding the death of the unknown Italian 
42 


Tristram at Home 43 

girl 111 the most crowded of London thoroughfares by 
reason of this verdict of the jury. 

The police had taken up the matter actively, but 
all that had been discovered regarding the identity of 
the dead woman was that her name was probably 
Vittorina — beyond that, absolutely nothing. Among 
the millions who had followed the mystery with 
avidity in the papers, one man alone recognized the 
woman by her description, and with satisfaction learnt 
how ingeniously her death had been encompassed. 

That man was the eminently respectable doctor in 
the remote rural village of Lyddington. 

With his breakfast untouched before him, he sat 
in his cosy room eagerly devouring the account of the 
inquest ; then, when he had finished, he cast the paper 
aside, exclaiming aloud in Italian — 

TDio! What good fortune! I wonder how it was 
accomplished? Somebody else, besides ourselves, ap- 
parently feared her presence in England. Arnoldo 
is in Livorno by this time, and has had his journey for 
nothing.” 

Then, with his head thrown back in his chair, he 
gazed up at the panelled ceiling deep in thought. 

“Who, I wonder, could that confounded English- 
man have been who escorted her to London, and who 
left her so suddenly? Some jaacanapes or other, I 
suppose. And who’s the Major? He’s evidently 
English too, whoever he is. Only fancy, on the very 
night we discussed the desirability of the girl’s death, 
some unknown person obligingly did the work for 
us!” Then he paused, set his teeth, and, frowning, 
added, “But that injudicious letter of Egisto’s may 
give us some trouble. What an idiot to write like 
that! I hope the police won’t trace him. If they do, 
it will be awkward — devilish awkward.” 

And he rose, paced the room several times, halting 
at last before the window, and gazing across the level 
lawn, fresh after a cooling shower during the night. 

A few minutes later the door opened, and a younger 


44 


Tristram at Home 


man, slim and pale-faced, entered and wished him 
“good morning/’ 

“No breakfast?” the man, his assistant, inquired, 
glancing at the table. “What’s the matter ?” 

“Liver, my boy, liver,” Malvano answered with his 
usual good-humoured smile. “I shall go to town to- 
day. I may be absent the whole week; but there’s 
nothing really urgent. That case of typhoid up at 
Craig’s Lodge is going on well. You’ve seen it once, 
haven’t you?” 

“Yes. You’re treating it in the usual way, I 
suppose ?” 

“Of course;” and the doctor, advancing to the 
table, poured out a cup of coffee and drank it, at the 
same time calling to his man Goodwin to pack his 
bag, and be ready to drive him to the London train 
at ten-twenty. 

His assistant being called to the surgery a few 
minutes later, Malvano sat down at his writing-table, 
hastily scribbled a couple of telegrams, which he folded 
and carefully placed in his pocket-book, and half an 
hour later drove out of the quiet, old-world village, 
with its ancient church spire and long, straggling street 
of thatched cottages, on his way to catch the train. 

Beside the faithful Goodwin he sat in silence the 
whole way, for many things he had read that morning 
sorely puzzled him. It was true that the lips of Vittor- 
ina were sealed in death, but the letter signed “Egisto,” 
discovered by the police in her dressing-bag, still caused 
him the most intense anxiety. 

At the same hour that Malvano had been reading 
the account of the previous day’s inquest, Frank Tris- 
tram was sitting in his handsome, well- furnished cham- 
bers in St. James’s Street. He had breakfasted early, 
as was his wont, and had afterwards started his habit- 
ual cigarette. The room in which he sat was a typical 
bachelor’s quarter, filled with all sorts of curios and 
bric-a-brac which its owner had picked up in the 
various corners of the earth he had visited 


Tristram at Home 


45 


bearing despatches from the Foreign Office. Upon the 
floor lay a couple of fine tiger-skins, presents from an 
Indian rajah, while around were inlaid coffee-stools and 
trays of beaten brass from Constantinople, a beautiful 
screen from Cairo, a rare statuette from Rome, quaint 
pictures and time-yellowed ivories from the. curiosity 
shops of Florence and Vienna, savage weapons from 
Africa and South America, and a bright, shining sam- 
ovar from St. Petersburg. In a corner stood the much- 
worn travelling-bag which he kept always ready packed, 
and hanging upon a nail above the mantleshelf was the 
blue ribbon with its silver greyhound, the badge which 
carried its owner everywhere with the greatest amount 
of swiftness, and the least amount of personal discom- 
fort. Over the fireplace, too, were many auto- 
graphed portraits of British ambassadors and dis- 
tinguished foreign statesmen, together with those of 
one or two ladies of this constant traveller’s acquaint- 
ance. 

As he lay back in a wicker deck-chair — the same in 
which he had taken his after-luncheon nap on board 
many an ocean steamer — well-shaven, smart, and 
spruce, his legs stretched out lazily, his hands thrust 
deep into his pockets, he sighed deeply. 

“Italy again !” he grumbled to himself as he took up 
a scribbled note on official paper. “Just my infernal 
luck. Italy is the very last place I want to visit just 
now, yet, by Jove! the Chief sends me a message to 
start this morning/’ And arousing himself, he stretched 
his arms and glanced wearily at the little carriage- 
clock. The discarded newspaper on the floor recalled 
all that he had read half an hour before. 

“I wonder/’ he went on — “I wonder if any one on 
Charing Cross platform except the porter spotted the 
girl?” Then he remained silent for a moment. “No. 

I oughtn’t to go to Italy; it’s far too risky. There’s 
plenty of time yet for Marvin to be called. I must 
feign illness, and await my chance to go on a long trip 
to Pekin, Teheran, or Washington, Yes, a touch 


46 


Tristram at Home 


of fever will be a good excuse.” But, after a moment's 
further consideration, he added, “Yet, after all, to be ill 
will be to arouse suspicion. No, I’ll go;” and he 
pressed the electric bell. 

In answer to the summons his man-servant, a smart, 
tall ex-private of Dragoons, entered. 

“A foreign telegraph-form, Smayle,” he said. 

The man obeyed with military promptitude, and his 
master a minute later scribbled a few hasty words on 
the yellow form, securing a berth in the through sleep- 
ing-car leaving Paris that night for Rome. 

“Take this to the telegraph-office in Regent Street,” 
he said. “I'm leaving this morning, and if anybody 
calls, tell them I’ve gone to Washington, to Timbuctoo, 
or to the devil, if you like — anyhow, I shan’t be back 
for a month. You understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” answered the man with a smile. “Shall 
I forward any letters ?” 

“Yes, Poste Restante, Leghorn.” 

At that moment the bell of the outer door rang out 
sharply, and Smayle went in response, returning a 
moment later, saying — 

“Major Maitland, sir.” 

“Show him in,” answered his master in a tone of 
suppressed excitement. 

The man disappeared, and a second later the Major 
entered jauntily, his silk hat slightly askew, extended 
his well-gloved hand, greeted his friend profusely with 
the easy air of a man about town, and sank into one of 
the comfortable saddle-bag chairs. 

“Well, my dear fellow,” he exclaimed as soon as they 
were alone. “Why do you risk London after the events 
of the other night ? I never dreamed that I should find 
you at home.” 

“I’m leaving for Italy again by the eleven train,” the 
other answered. “Have you read this morning’s 
paper ?” 

“Of course I have,” answered the Major. “It’s an 
infernally awkward bit of business for both of us, I’m 


Tristram at Home 


47 


afraid. That introduction at the station was the 
greatest mistake possible, for the cabman will no 
doubt identify us. Besides, he overheard you address 
me by rank.” 

“But the police have no suspicion,” Tristram 
observed. “At present we are safe enough.” 

“If I were you I wouldn't arrive or depart from 
Charing Cross for a few months, at least,” the Major 
suggested. “The business is far too ugly for us to run 
any unnecessary risks, you know.” 

“No; I shall make a habit of departing from 
London Bridge and arriving at Cannon Street. I 
never have more than hand-baggage with me.” 

“Where are you going to-day ?” 

“To Leghorn again. Right into the very midst of 
the enemy's camp,” he laughed. 

“Suppose any facts regarding the mystery have 
been published in the local papers, don't you think 
you'd stand a good chance of being arrested? The 
police in Italy are very arbitrary.” 

“They dare not arrest me with despatches in my 
possession. I have immunity from arrest while on 
official business,” Her Majesty's messenger answered. 

“ That may be so,” replied the Major, selecting a 
cigar from the box at his elbow uninvited, and slowly 
clipping off the end with the punch on his watch- 
chain. “But you'd have a considerable difficulty in 
persuading the police of either London or Leghorn 
that you were not the amiable young man who arrived 
at Charing Cross with Vittorina.” 

“And you would have similar difficulty, my dear 
old chap, in convincing the detectives that you were 
not the person who waited for us on the platform,” the 
other replied without removing his cigarette. “You're 
so well known about town that, if I were you, I should 
leave London at once, and not take a return ticket.” 

“I leave to-night.” 

“By what route?” 

“By a rather round-about one,” the Major answered, 


43 


Tristram at Home 


slowly striking a vesta. “The ordinary Channel 
passage might disagree with me, you know, so I shall 
travel this evening to Hull, and sail to-morrow morn- 
ing for Christiana. Thence I shall get down into 
Germany via Hamburg.” 

“A very neat way of evading observation,” observed 
the Captain in a tone of admiration. 

“I booked my passage a fortnight ago, in case I 
might require it,” the elder man observed carelessly. 
“When one desires to cover one’s tracks, the ordinary 
Channel services are worse than useless. I call the 
Norwegian the circular route. I’ve used it more than 
once before. They know me on the Wilson liners.” 

Tristram glanced at his watch. “I must be off in 
five minutes. What will be your address ?” 

“Portland before long, if I’m not wary,” the other 
replied, with a grim smile. 

“This is no time for joking, Maitland,” Tristram 
said severely. “Reserve your witticisms for the 
warders, if you really anticipate chokee. They’ll no 
doubt appreciate them.” 

“Then address me Poste Restante, Brussels. I’m 
certain to drift to the Europe there sooner or later 
within the next three months,” the Major said. 

“Very well, I must go;” and the Queen’s messenger 
quickly obtained his soft grey felt hat and heavy 
travelling-coat from the hall, filled a silver flask from 
a decanter, took down the blue ribbon, deftly fastened 
it around his neck out of sight beneath his cravat, and 
snatched up his travelling-bag. 

“I’m going along to the Foreign Office for des- 
patches. Can I drop you anywhere from my cab?” he 
asked as they made their way down the stairs together. 

“No, my dear fellow,” the Major replied. “I’m 
going up Bond Street.” 

Then, on gaining St. James’s Street, the Captain 
sprang into a cab, and shouting a cheery adieu to his 
friend, drove off on the first stage of his tedious 
thousand-mile journey to the Mediterranean shore. 


CHAPTER VI 


IN TUSCANY 

Leghorn, the gay, sun-blanched Tuscan watering- 
place known to Italians as Livorno, is at its brightest 
and best throughout the month of August. To the 
English, save those who reside permanently in 
Florence, Pisa, or Rome, its beauties are unknown. 
But those who know Italy — and to know Italy is to 
love it — are well aware that at “cara Livorno,” as the 
Tuscans call it, one can obtain perhaps the best sea- 
bathing in Europe, and enjoy a perfectly delightful 
summer beside the Mediterranean. 

It is never obtrusive by its garishness, never gaudy 
or inartistic; for it makes no pretension to being a 
first-class holiday resort like Nice or Cannes. Still, 
it has its long, beautiful Passeggio extending the 
whole of the sea-front, planted with tamarisks, ilexes, 
and flowering oleanders it has its wide, airy piazzas, 
its cathedral, its Grand Hotel, its pensions, and, lastly, 
its little open cabs in which one can drive two miles for 
the not altogether ruinous fare of sixpence halfpenny. 
Its baths, ingeniously built out upon the bare brown 
rocks into the clear, bright sea, take the place of piers 
at English seaside resorts, and here during the after- 
noon everybody, clad in ducks and muslins, lounges 
in chairs to gossip beneath the widespread awnings, 
while the waves beat with musical cadence up to 
their very feet. At evening there are gay, well-lit 
49 


50 


In Tuscany 




open-air cafes and several theatres, while the musical 
can sit in a stall at the opera and hear the best works 
performed by the best Italian artists for the sum of 
one and threepence. 

But life at Livorno is purely Tuscan. As yet it is 
unspoilt by English-speaking tourists; indeed, it is 
safe to say that not three Cookites set foot within the 
city in twelve months. In its every aspect the town 
is beautiful. From the sea it presents a handsome 
appearance, with its lines of high white houses with 
their red roofs and closed sun-shutters, backed by the 
distant blue peaks of the Lucca Mountains and the 
serrated spurs of the purple Apennines, while in its 
sun-whitened streets the dress of the Livornesi, with 
their well-made skirts of the palest and most delicate 
tints of blue, grey, and rose, and with their black silk 
scarves or lace mantillas twisted about their handsome 
heads, is the most artistic and tasteful in all fair Italy. 
The men are happy, careless, laughing fellows, muscu- 
lar, and bronzed by the sun; the women dark-eyed, 
black-haired, and notable throughout the length and 
breadth of Europe for their extreme beauty and their 
grace of carriage. 

Little wonder is it that stifled Florentines, from 
shopkeepers to princes, unable to bear the heat and 
mosquitoes beside the muddy Arno, betake themselves 
to this bright little watering-place during August and 
September, where, even if the heat is blazing at mid- T 
day, the wind is delightfully cool at evening, and the 
sea-baths render life really worth living. Unless one 
has spent a summer in Tuscany, it is impossible to 
realize its stifling breathlessness and its sickening 
sun-glare. Unless one has lived among the sly, 
secretive, proud but carelessly happy Livornesi, has 
shared their joys, sympathized with their sorrows, 
fraternized with them and noted their little peculi- 
arities, one can never enjoy Livorno. 

At first the newly arrived foreigner is pointed at 
by all as one apart, and considered an imbecile for 


In Tuscany 


51 


preferring Livorno to Florence, or Milano ; every 
shopkeeper endeavours to charge him double prices, 
and for every trifling service performed he is expected 
to disburse princely tips. But the Tuscan heart is 
instantly softened towards him as soon as he seems 
likely to become a resident; all sorts and conditions 
of men do him little kindnesses without monetary 
reward; grave-faced monks will call at his house and 
leave him presents of luscious fruits and fresh-cut 
salads ; and even his cabman, the last to relent, will 
one day, with profuse apology for previous extortions, 
charge only his just fare. 

The Italians are indeed an engaging people. It is 
because they are so ingenuous, so contented, so self- 
denying, so polite yet so sarcastic, that one learns to 
love them so well. 

Along the Viale Regina Margherita, or esplanade — 
better known perhaps by its ancient name, the Pas- 
seggio — are a number of baths, all frequented by 
different grades of society, the one most in vogue 
among the better-class residents and visitors being a 
handsome establishment with cafe and skating-rink 
attached, known as Pancaldi’s. 

It was here, one evening soon after the mysterious 
death of Vittorina in London, that two persons, a man 
and a woman, were sitting, watching the ever-changing 
hues of one of those glorious blazing sunsets seen 
nowhere else in the world but in the Mediterranean. 
The broad, asphalted promenade, covered by its wide 
canvas awnings, was almost blocked by the hundreds 
of gaily dressed persons sitting on chairs chattering 
and laughing, and it seemed as though all the notable 
people of Florence and Bologna had assembled there 
to enjoy the cool breeze after the terrific heat of the 
August day Along the Viale the road was sun- 
bleached, the wind-swept tamarisks were whitened 
by the dust, and the town that day had throbbed and 
gasped beneath the terrible, fiery August glare. But 
here, at Pancaldi’s, was light, happy chatter — in 


In Tuscany 


S3 

Italian of various dialects, of course — a cool, refreshing 
breeze, and that indefinable air of delicious laziness 
which Italy alone claims as her birthright. 

The pair sitting together at the end of the asphalted 
walk, at some distance from the crowd, were young 
and, to a casual observer, well matched. Unlike all 
others round about her, the woman was of fair com- 
plexion, about twenty-five, with that gold-brown hair 
that Titian loved to paint, eyes of a deep and wondrous 
blue, a small, adorable mouth, the upper lip of which 
possessed that rare attribute, the true Cupid's bow, a 
face sweet, almost child-like in expression, perfect in 
its purity. Her great beauty was well set off by her 
black dress and tiny black bonnet, but from the crown 
of her head to the toe of her pointed patent-leather 
shoe there was a chic and daintiness about her which, 
to an English eye, stamped her as foreign, even though 
her face bore no trace of Italian blood. 

Half that gay, gossiping crowd, attracted by her 
beauty, had already set her down as English, perhaps 
because her fairness was uncommon in Tuscany, per- 
haps because they detected by the cut of her compan- 
ion's clothes that he was English. But Gemma Fan- 
etti was really a native of Florence, a true-bred Tus- 
can, who knew not half a dozen words of English. She 
could chatter French a little, and could gabble the 
nasal Milanese dialect, but it always amused her to be 
taken for an English woman. 

Her dress, although black, and only relieved by a 
little white lace at the throat and wrists, was made in 
the latest mode, and fitted her perfectly. On her slim 
wrist was a single bangle of diamonds, which flashed 
in the dying sunlight with all the colours of the spec- 
trum as, in chatting idly with her companion, she 
slowly traced semicircles on the ground with the point 
of her black sunshade. Undoubtedly she was striking- 
ly beautiful, for men in twos and threes were passing 
and repassing solely for the purpose of obtaining a 
glance at her. 


In Tuscany 


S3 


Utterly unconscious of their admiration, of the 
whisperings of those about her, or of the glorious 
wealth of color spread before them as the sun sank 
deep into the grey, glittering sea, causing the islands 
of Gorgona, Capraja, Elba, and Corsica to loom forth 
upon the distant horizon like giant shadows rising from 
those tideless waters, they both chatted on, glancing 
now and then into each others eyes. 

Her companion was about twenty-eight, good-look- 
ing, dark-eyed, with a merry face and an air of care^ss- 
ness as, in a suit of cool, white ducks, and his straw hat 
tilted slightly over his brow to shade his eyes, he sat 
back in his chair, joining in her low, well-bred laugh- 
ter. Truth to tell, Charles Armytage was desperately 
in love. 

For seven years — ever since he came of age and 
succeeded to his fathers property in Wales — he had 
led a wild, rather dissipated life on the Continent, and 
had found himself world-weary before his time. His 
college career had terminated somewhat ignominious- 
ly, for he had been “sent down” on account of a rather 
serious practical joke ; he had studied for the Bar, and 
failed ; he had done the whole round of the public gam- 
ing establishments, Monte Carlo, Ostend, Spa, Dinant, 
Namur, and Trouville, losing heavily at each; he had 
idled on the sands of Scheveningen, flirted on the 
Promenade des Anglais at Nice, tasted the far-famed 
oysters at Arcachon, the bouillabaisse at Marseilles, 
and bathed on San Sebastian's golden sands. Once he 
had taken a fit into his head to visit all the spas, and, 
beginning with Royat, he made a tour of all the prin- 
cipal ones as far as Carlsbad. Thus had he developed 
into a thorough cosmopolitan, travelling hither and 
thither just as his fancy led him, his only hobby being 
in occasionally writing a short story or travel article 
for one or other of the English magazines. 

It was in this restless, dejected mood that, six 
months before, he had arrived in Florence, and by 
mere chance had first met the woman who was now 


54 


In Tuscany 


beside him. He had one morning been walking 
along the Via Tornabuoni when he first saw her, 
accompanied by her servant. Suddenly something 
fell to the pavement, and an urchin instantly snatched 
it up. Armytage ran after him, recovered the little 
golden charm, and handed it to its owner, being 
rewarded by a few words of thanks. Her grace, her 
beauty, her soft, musical voice rekindled within him a 
desire for life. Instantly he became fascinated by her 
wondrous beauty, and she, too, seemed content to chat 
with him, and to listen to his very faulty Italian, 
which must have been exceedingly difficult for her to 
understand. 

They did not meet often, but always casually. 
Once or twice he encountered her cycling in the 
Cascine, and had joined her in a spin along the shady 
avenues. They had exchanged cards, but she had 
never invited him to call, and he, living at a hotel, 
could scarcely invite her. Italian manners strictly 
preserve the convenances . No unmarried lady in any 
Tuscan city, not even a woman of the people, ever 
dreams of going out alone. Even the poorest girl is 
chaperoned whenever she takes an airing. 

Suddenly, just when Armytage found himself hope- 
lessly infatuated, he one morning received an urgent 
telegram calling him to London, and he had been com- 
pelled to leave without a word of farewell, or any 
knowledge of her address. 

As soon as he could, he returned to Florence, but 
the weather had then grown hot, and all who were 
able had left the sun-baked city. Then, disappointed 
at not finding her after an active search, he drifted 
down to the sea at Livorno, and within three days 
was delighted to see her strolling in the Passeggio 
with her ugly, cross-eyed serving woman. The 
recognition was mutual, and after one or two meet- 
ings she explained that she had a flat for the season in 
one of the great white houses opposite, and expressed 
a hope that he would call. 


In Tuscany 


55 

He lost no time in renewing the acquaintance, and 
now they were inseparable. He loved her. 

“Do you know, Gemma,” he was saying seriously, 
“when I left Florence in March, I left my heart be- 
hind — with you.” 

She blushed slightly beneath her veil, and raising 
her clear blue eyes to his, answered with a slight 
sigh in her soft Italian, lisping almost like a child, 
she spoke so low — 

“You say you love me, caro; but can I really believe 
you?” 

“Of course you can, dearest,” he answered earnestly, 
speaking her tongue with difficulty, and without any 
regard for grammatical rules. “I love no other woman 
in the whole world but you.” 

“Ah!” she exclaimed sadly, gazing blankly away 
across the sea, now glittering crimson in the blaze of 
the dying day. “I sometimes fear to love you, because 
you may tire of me one day, and go back to some 
woman of your own people.” 

“Never,” he answered fervently. “As I told you 
yesterday, Gemma, I love you; and you, in return, 
have already given me your pledge.” 

“And you can actually love me like this, blindly, 
without inquiring too deeply into my past?” she 
whispered, regarding him gravely with those calm, 
clear eyes, which seemed to penetrate his very soul. 

“Your past matters not to me,” he answered in a 
deep, intense voice under his breath, so that passers-by 
should not overhear. “I have asked you nothing; 
you have told me nothing. I love you, Gemma, and 
trust to your honor to tell me what I ought to know.” 

“Ah ! you are generous !” she exclaimed ; and he 
saw beneath her veil a single tear upon her cheek. 
“The past life of a man can always be effaced; that 
of a woman never. A false step, alas ! lives as 
evidence against her until the grave.” 

“Why are you so melancholy this evening?” he 
asked, after a pause. 


56 


In Tuscany 


“I really don't know," she answered, vainly en- 
deavouring to smile. “Perhaps it is because I am so 
happy and contented. My peace seems too complete 
to be lasting, therefore I fear the reaction." 

“While you love me, Gemma, I shall love you 
always," he exclaimed decisively. “You need never 
have any doubt about my earnestness. I adore you." 

Her breast heaved and fell beneath its black lace 
and jet, and she turned her fine eyes upon him with 
an expression more eloquent than any words of assur- 
ance and affection. 

Then, after a brief silence, during which she slowly 
retraced the semicircle with her sunshade, he glanced 
around at the crowd about them, saying — 

“It is impossible to speak further of our private 
affairs here. You will dine with me to-night. Where 
shall it be?" 

He always consulted her in such matters, for, being 
herself Tuscan, she could order an exquisite dinner at 
a quarter the cost of his own clumsy demands. 

“Let's dine at the Eden. There's plenty of air 
there. We can get a table facing the sea, and stay to 
the performance afterwards. Shall we?" she asked, 
her face brightening. 

“Certainly," he replied. “I'll go across to the 
hotel and dress, while you go along home and put on 
another frock. I know you won't go in black to a 
cafe chantant," he added, laughing. 

“You'll call for me?" she asked. 

“Yes, at eight." 

As these words fell from his lips a man's voice in 
English exclaimed — 

“Elulloa, Charlie ! Who'd have thought of finding 
you here ?" 

Armytage looked up quickly, and, to his surprise, 
found standing before him his old college chum and 
fellow-clubman, Frank Tristram. 

“Why, Frank, old fellow!" he cried, jumping up 
and grasping the other's hand warmly. “We haven't 


In Tuscany 


57 


met for how long? The last time was one night in 
the Wintergarden at Berlin, fully two years ago — eh ?" 

“Yes. Neither of us are much in London nowa- 
days, therefore we seldom meet. But what are you 
doing here?" asked the Queen's messenger, looking 
cool and smart in his suit of grey flannel. 

“Killing time, as usual," his friend replied, with a 
smile. 

“Lucky devil!" Tristram exclaimed. “While I’m 
compelled to race from end to end of Europe for a 
paltry eight hundred a year, you laze away your 
days in an out-of-the-world place like this." And 
he glanced significantly at the sweet, fair-faced woman 
who, having given him a swift look, was now sitting 
motionless, her hands idly crossed upon her lap, her 
eyes fixed blankly upon the sunlit sea. 

“Let me introduce you," Armytage exclaimed in 
Italian, noticing his friend’s look of admiration. 
Then, with a polite wave of his hand, he said, “The 
Signorina Gemma Fanetti — my friend, Captain Frank 
Tristram." 

The latter bowed, made a little complimentary 
speech in excellent Italian, and seated himself with 
Armytage beside her. 

“Well," Tristram said, still speaking in Italian, 
“this is quite an unexpected pleasure. I thought 
that in addition to the Ambassador out at Ardenza, 
and the jovial Jack Hutchinson, the Consul, I was the 
only Englishman in this purely Tuscan place." Then, 
turning to his friend’s companion, he asked, “Are you 
Livornese?" 

“Oh no," she replied, with a gay, rippling laugh. 
“I live in Florence ; only just now the place is stifling, 
so I’m down here for fresh air." 

“Ah, Florence!" he said. “The old city is justly 
termed ‘La Bella.’ I sometimes find myself there in 
winter, and it is always interesting, always delightful." 

At that moment an English lady, the wife of an 
Italian officer, bowed in passing, and Armytage sprang 


i 


58 


In Tuscany 


to his feet and began to chat to her. He had known 
her well during his stay in Florence earlier in the 
year. 

As soon as Gemma noticed that her lover was no 
longer listening, her manner at once changed, and 
bending quickly towards the Captain, she exclaimed 
in rapid Italian, which she knew Armytage could not 
understand — 

“Well, did you see Vittorina safely to London ?” 

Tristram started at the' unexpected mention of that 
name. 

“Yes,” he answered, with slight hesitation. “I 
saw her safely as far as Charing Cross, but was com- 
pelled to leave her there, and put her in a cab for 
Hammersmith.” 

“How far is that?” 

“About five kilometres,” he replied. 

“I have had no telegram from her,” she observed. 
“She promised to wire to me as soon as she arrived, 
and I am beginning to feel anxious about her.” 

“Worry is useless,” he said calmly. “She is no 
doubt quite safe with her friends. I gave the cabman 
the right address. My official business was pressing, 
or I would have gone out to Hammersmith with her.” 

“You remember what I told you on the night we 
parted in Florence ?” she said mysteriously. 

He nodded, and his dark face grew a shade paler. 

“Well, I have discovered that what I suspected v/as 
correct,” she said, her eyes flashing for an instant with 
a strange glint. “Some one has betrayed the secret.” 

“Betrayed you !” he gasped. 

She shrugged her shoulders. Tier clear eyes fixed 
themselves fiercely upon him. 

“You alone knew the truth,” she said. “And you 
have broken your promise of silence.” 

He flinched, glancing furtively at his friend, who, in 
ignorance, was still calmly talking with the officer’s 
wife. 

“Well?” he said. “You are, of course, at liberty 


In Tuscany 


59 


to make any charge you like against me, but I can 
only declare that I have not divulged one single 
word.” Then he added quickly, “But what of Army- 
tage ? Does he know anything ?” 

“Absolutely nothing,” she answered quickly. “I 
love him. Remember that you and I have never met 
before our introduction this afternoon.” 

“Of course,” the Captain answered beneath his 
breath. “We are perfect strangers.” 

“Curious that Vittorina has disappeared! If I hear 
nothing of her, I shall go to London and find her,” 
Gemma observed, after a few moments’ silence. 

“Better not, if you really have been betrayed, as 
you allege you have,” he answered quickly. 

“I have been betrayed, Captain Tristram,” she 
said rapidly, with withering scorn, her face flushing 
instantly, her large, luminous eyes flashing. “You 
are well aware that I have; and, further, you know 
that you yourself are my bitterest enemy. I spare 
you now. mean, despicable coward that you are, but 
utter one word to the man I love, and I . will settle 
accounts with you swiftly and relentlessly.” 

She held her breath, panting for an instant, then, 
turning from him, greeted her lover with a sweet, 
winning smile, as at that moment he returned to 
her side. 


CHAPTER yil. 


DOCTOR MALVANO. 

Among the thousand notable dining-places in London, 
Bonciani’s Restaurant, in Regent Street, is notable for 
its recherche repasts. It is by no means a pretentious 
place, for its one window displays a few long-necked, 
rush-covered flasks of Tuscan wine, together with 
some rather sickly looking plants, a couple of framed 
menus , and two or three large baskets of well-selected 
fruit. Indeed, the average Londoner who has passed 
times without number from Piccadilly Circus to Ox- 
ford Street has never noticed its existence, for out- 
wardly there is nothing to distinguish it from any other 
of the host of small Italian restaurants with which the 
metropolis abounds. 

Yet to many, mostly clubmen and idlers about town, 
the Bonciani is a feature of London life. In the day- 
time the passer-by sees no sign of activity within, and 
even at night the place presents an ill-lit, paltry, and 
uninviting appearance beside the St. James’s, the Cafe 
Royal, and the glaring Monico. But among the few 
in London who know where to dine well, the little 
unpretentious place halfway up Regent Street, on 
the left going towards Oxford Street, is well known 
for its unrivalled cuisine, its general coziness, and its 
well-matured wines. At the Bonciani the dinners are 
cooked separately by Augustino, a first-class chef, 
who was chef of the kitchen at the Grand Hotel at 
60 


Doctor Malvano 


6i 


Rome, and one can rely upon the Italian dishes being 
done to a turn. The interior is not striking. There 
are no gilt-edged mirrors, as is usual in Anglo-Italian 
restaurants, but the walls are frescoed, as in Italy, 
with lounges upholstered in red velvet, a trifle shabby, 
extending down the long, rather low room. Upon the 
dozen little marble-topped tables, with their snow- 
white cloths, are objects seen nowhere else in London, 
namely, silver-plated holders for the wine-flasks; for 
with the dinner here wine is inclusive, genuine Pomino 
imported direct from old Galuzzo in the Val d’Ema 
beyond Firenze, a red wine of delicate bouquet which 
connoisseurs know cannot be equalled anywhere in 
London. Yes, many people dine at Kettner’s, at the 
Trocadero, at Gatti’s, at the Monico, and the Cafe 
Royal, but few of London’s millions have ever set foot 
within the small unique establishment of Bonciani. 
To dine there is, indeed, an education in the gastro- 
nomic art. 

One evening, about a week after the meeting 
between Gemma and Tristram at Livorno, nearly all 
the tables were occupied, as they usually are at the 
dining hour, but at the extreme end sat two men, 
eating leisurely, and taking long draughts from the 
great rush-covered flask before them. They were 
Tristram and Romanelli. 

Four days ago the pair had met late at night at the 
railway station at Leghorn, and the one hearing the 
other demand a ticket for London, they got into con- 
versation, and travelled through together, arriving at 
Victoria on the previous evening. During the three 
days of travelling they had become very friendly, and 
now, at the Italian’s invitation, Tristram was dining 
previous to his return on the morrow to Livorno, for 
at that period Italy was approaching England on the 
subject of a treaty, and the correspondence between 
our Ambassador and the Foreign Office was consider- 
able, necessitating despatches being sent to Italy 
almost daily. 


6 2 


Doctor Malvano 


“So you return to-morrow ?” Romanelli exclaimed, 
twirling his tiny black moustache affectedly. To men 
his foppishness was nauseating; but women liked him 
because of his amusing gossip. 

“Yes,” the other answered, sighing. “I expected to 
get a few days’ rest in London, but this afternoon I 
received orders to leave again to-morrow.” 

“Your life must be full of change and entertain- 
ment,” the young Italian said. 

“Rather too full,” the other laughed. “Already this 
year I have been to Italy more than twenty times, 
besides three times to Constantinople, once to Stock- 
holm, twice to Petersburg, and innumerbale trips to 
Brussels and Paris. But, by the way,” he added, 
putting down his glass as if a sudden thought had 
occurred to him, “you know Leghorn well, I think 
you said?” 

“I’m not Livornese, but I lived there for fen years,” 
the other answered. “I came to London a year ago 
to learn English, for they said it was impossible to 
get any sort of good pronunciation in Italy.” 

“I’ve passed through Pisa hundreds of times, but 
have only been in Leghorn once or twice,” observed 
the Queen’s messenger. “Charming place. Full of 
pretty girls.” 

“Ah ! yes,” cried Romanelli. “The English always 
admire our Livornesi girls.” 

Tristram paused for a few seconds, then, raising his 
eyes until they met those of his new acquaintance, 
asked — 

“Do you happen to know a girl there named 
Fanetti — Gemma Fanetti?” 

Romanelli started perceptibly, and for an instant 
held his breath. He was utterly unprepared for this 
question, and strove vainly not to betray any surprise. 

“Fanetti,” he repeated aloud, as if reflecting. “I 
think not. It is not a Livornese name.” 

“She lives in Florence, I believe, but always spends 
the bathing season at Leghorn,” Tristram added. 


Doctor Malvano 


63 


His quick eyes had detected the Italian’s surprise and 
anxiety when he had made the unexpected inquiry, 
and he felt confident that his foppish young friend was 
concealing the truth. 

"I’ve never, to my recollection, met any one of that 
name,” Romanelli answered with well-feigned careless- 
ness. "Is she a lady, or merely a girl of the people?” 

"A lady.” 

"Young?” 

"Quite. She’s engaged to be married to a friend of 
mine.” 

"Engaged to be married?” the young man repeated 
with a smile. "Is the man an Englishman ?” 

"Yes, a college chum of mine. He’s well off, and 
they seem a most devoted pair.” 

There was a brief silence, during which Tristram 
continued eating his costolctta alia Milanese , a dish of 
which the Bonciani makes a specialty. 

"I have no recollection of the name in Florentine 
society, and I certainly have never' met her in 
Livorno,” Romanelli said. "So she’s found a husband? 
Is she pretty ?” 

"Extremely. The prettiest woman I’ve ever seen 
in Italy.” 

"And there are a good many in my country,” the 
Italian said. "The poor girl who died so mysteri- 
ously — or who, some say, was murdered — outside the 
Criterion was very beautiful. I knew her well — poor 
girl!” 

"You knew her?” gasped the Captain, in turn 
surprised. "You were acquainted with Vittorina 
Rinaldo?” 

"Yes,” replied his companion slowly, glancing at 
him with some curiosity. "But, tell me,” he added 
after a pause, "how did you know her surname? 
The London police have failed to discover it?” 

Frank Tristram’s brow contracted. He knew that 
he had foolishly betrayed himself. In an instant a 
ready lie was upon his lips* 


64 


Doctor Malvano 


“I was told so in Livorno,” he said glibly. “She 
was Livornese.” 

“Yes,” Romanelli observed, only half convinced. 
“According to the papers, it appears as if she were 
accompanied by some man from Italy. But her death 
and her companion’s disappearance are alike unfathom- 
able mysteries.” 

“Extraordinary !” the Captain acquiesced. “I’ve 
been away so much that I haven’t had a chance to 
read the whole of the details. But the scraps I have 
read seem remarkably mysterious.” 

“There appears to have been absolutely no motive 
whatever in murdering her,” Amoldo said, glancing 
sharply across the table at his companion. 

“If it were really murder there must have been some 
hidden motive,” Tristram declared. “Personally, 
however, in the light of the Coroner’s verdict 
I’m inclined to the opinion that the girl died sud- 
denly in the cab, and the man sitting beside her, 
fearing that an accusation of murder might bring 
about some further revelation, made good his 
escape.” 

“He must have known London pretty well,” 
Romanelli observed. 

“Of course. The evidence proves that he was an 
Englisman; and that he knew London was quite 
evident from the fact that he gave instructions to the 
cabman to drive up the Haymarket, instead of crossing 
Leicester Square.” 

Again a silence fell between them, as a calm-faced, 
elderly waiter, in the most correct garb of the Italian 
cameriere — a short jacket and long white apron 
reaching almost to his feet — quickly removed their 
empty plates. He glanced swiftly from one man to 
the other, polished Tristram’s plate with his cloth as 
he stood behind him, and exchanged a meaning look 
with Romanelli. Then he turned suddenly, and went 
off to another table, to which he was summoned by 
the tapping of a knife upon a plate. The glance he 


Doctor Malvano 65 

had exchanged with the young Italian was one of 
recognition and mysterious significance. 

This man, the urbane head-waiter, known well to 
frequenters of the Bonciani as Filippo, was known 
equally well in the remote Rutlandshire village as 
Doctor Malvano, the man who had expressed fear at 
the arrival of Vittorina in England, and who, truth to 
tell, led the strangest dual existence of doctor and 
waiter. 

None in rural Lyddington suspected that their 
jovial doctor, with his merry chaff and imperturbable 
good humour, became grave-faced and suddenly trans- 
formed each time he visited London; none dreamed 
that his many absences from his practice were due to 
anything beyond his natural liking for theatres and 
the gaiety of town life ; and none would have credited, 
even had it ever been alleged, that this man who 
could afford that large, comfortable house, rent 
shooting, and keep hunters in his stables, on each of 
his visits to London, assumed a badly starched shirt, 
black tie, short jacket and long white apron, in order 
to collect stray pence from diners in a restaurant. 
Yet such was the fact. Doctor Malvano, who had 
been so well known among the English colony in 
Florence, was none other than Filippo, head-waiter at 
the obscure little cafe in Regent Street. 

“It is still a mystery who the dead girl was,” 
Tristram observed at last, after Filippo had brought 
another dish. “The man who told me her name only 
knew very little about her.” 

“What did he know?” Romanelli inquired quickly. 
“I had often met her at various houses in Livorno, but 
knew nothing of her parentage.” 

“Nobody seems to know who she really was,” Tris- 
tram remarked pensively ; “and her reason for coming 
to England seems to have been entirely a secret 
one.” 

“A lover, perhaps,” Arnoldo said, with an amused 
air. 


66 


Doctor Malvano 


“Perhaps,” acquiesced his friend. 

“But who told you about her?” the Italian 
demanded. 

“There have been official inquiries through the 
British Consulate,” the other answered mysteriously. 

“Inquiries from the London police ?” 

The Queen's messenger nodded in the affirmative, 
adding — 

“I believe they have already discovered a good many 
curious facts.” 

“Have they ?” asked Romanelli quickly, exchanging 
a hasty glance with Filippo, who at that moment 
had paused behind his companion's chair. “What's the 
nature of their discoveries ?” 

“Ah!” Tristram answered, with a provoking smile. 
“I really don't know, except that I believe they have 
discovered something of her motive for coming to 
England.” 

“Her motive !” the other gasped, a trifle pale. “Then 
there is just a chance that the mystery will be elucida- 
ted, after all.” 

“More than a chance, I think,” the Captain replied. 
“The police, no doubt, hold a clue by that strange 
letter written from Lucca which was discovered in 
her dressing-case. And, now that I recollect,” he 
added in surprise, “this very table at which we are 
sitting is the one expressly mentioned by her 
mysterious correspondent. I wonder what was meant 
by it?” 

“Ah, I wonder!” the Italian exclaimed mechani- 
cally, his brow darkened by deep thought. “It was 
evident that the mysterious Egisto feared that some 
catastrophe might occur if she arrived in England, and 
he therefore warned her in a vague, veiled manner.” 

Filippo came and went almost noiselessly, his quick 
ears constantly on the alert to catch their conversation, 
his clean-shaven face grave, smileless, sphinx-like. 

“Well,” the Captain observed in a decisive manner, 
“you may rest assured that Scotland Yard will do 


Doctor Malvano 


67 

its utmost to clear up the mystery surrounding the 
death of your friend, for I happen to know that the 
Italian Ambassador in London has made special 
representation to our Home Office upon the subject, 
and instructions have gone forth that no effort is to 
be spared to solve the enigma/' 

“Then our Government at Rome have actually taken 
up the matter?" the Italian said in a tone which be- 
trayed alarm. 

Tristram smiled, but no word passed his lips. He 
saw that his new acquaintance had not the slightest 
suspicion that it was he who had accompanied Vitto- 
rina from Italy to London ; that it was he who had 
escaped so ingeniously through the bar of the Cri- 
terion ; that it was for him the police were everywhere 
searching. 

At last, when they had concluded their meal, 
Romanelli paid Filippo, giving him a tip, and the pair 
left the restaurant to pass an hour at the Empire 
before parting. 

Once or twice the young Italian referred to the 
mystery, but found his companion disinclined to 
discuss it further. 

“In my official capacity, I dare not say what I 
know," Tristram said at last in an attitude of confi- 
dence, as they were sitting together in the crowded 
lounge of the theatre . “My profession entails 
absolute secrecy. Often I am entrusted with the 
exchange of confidences between nations, knowledge 
of which would cause Europe to be convulsed by war 
from end to end, but secrets entrusted to me remain 
locked within my own heart." 

“Then you are really aware of true facts ?" inquired 
the other. 

“Of some," he replied vaguely, with a mysterious 
smile. 

The hand of his foppish companion trembled as he 
raised his liqueur-glass to his pale lips. But he 
laughed a hollow, artificial laugh, and then was silent. 


3 

\ 


CHAPTER VIII 

HER LADYSHIP’S SECRET 

Filippo, grave-faced, but smart nevertheless, continued 
to attend to the wants of customers at the Bonciani 
until nearly ten o’clock. He took their orders in 
English, transmitted them in Italian through the 
speaking-tube to the kitchen, and deftly handed the 
piles of plates and dishes with the confident air of 
the professional waiter. When a customer had 
finished, he weighed the wine-flask in his hand in true 
Tuscan style to ascertain how much Pomino had been 
consumed, and expressed profuse thanks for every tip 
he received, however small. 

Evidence was not wanting that to several elderly 
Italians he was well known, for he greeted them 
cheerily, advised them as to the best dishes, and 
treated them with fatherly solicitude from the moment 
they entered until their departure. Once, indeed, 
having a few moments’ repose, he stood beside one of 
the tables where two elderly men in evening-dress 
were dining, and discussd with them some local 
question affecting that old-world city dear to every 
Tuscan heart, “Florence, La Bella.” 

At ten o’clock, however, only two or three stray 
customers remained, smoking their long rank cigars 
and sipping their coffee, therefore Filippo handed over 
his cash, assumed his shabby black overcoat, and 
wishing “buona notte” to his fellow-waiters, and 
“good night” to the English check-taker at the small 
68 


Her Ladyship's Secret 


69 


counter, made his way out and eastward along Regent 
Street. It was a bright, brilliant night, cool and 
refreshing after the heat of the day. As he crossed 
Piccadilly Circus, the glare of the Criterion brought 
back to him the strange occurrence that had recently 
taken place before that great open portal, and, with a 
glance in that direction, he muttered to himself — 

“I wonder if the truth will ever be discovered? 
Strange that Arnoldo’s friend knows so much, yet 
will tell so little ! That the girl was killed seems 
certain. But how, and by whom? Strange/' he 
added, after a pause as he strode on, deep in thought 
— "very strange." 

In his soft felt hat and frayed coat he looked a 
typical waiter, and certainly none would recognize in 
him the smart, well-dressed, well-groomed medical 
man, who was a dead shot, who rode straight in the 
hunting-field, and was a welcome guest in every 
country house throughout Rutland. Engrossed in his 
own reflections, he passed along Wardour Street into 
Shaftesbury Avenue, and presently entered the heart 
of the foreign quarter of London, a narrow, dismal 
street of high, dingy, uninviting-looking houses known 
as Church Street, a squalid, sunless thoroughfare be- 
hind the glaring Palace of Varieties, inhabited mostly 
by French and Italians. 

He paused before a dark, dirty house, a residence of 
some importance a century ago, judging from its deep 
area, its wide portals, and its iron extinguishers, once 
used by the now-forgotten linkman, and, taking out a 
latchkey, opened the door, ascending to a small bed- 
sitting-room on the third floor, not over clean, but 
nevertheless comfortable. Upon the small side-table, 
with its cracked and clouded mirror, stood the remov- 
able centre of his dressing-bag with its silver fittings, 
and hanging behind the door were the clothes he wore 
when living his other life. 

He lit the cheap paraffin lamp, pulled down the 
faded crimson blind, threw his hat and coat carelessly 


7 ° 


Her Ladyship's Secret 


upon the bed, and, after glancing at his watch, sank 
into the shabby armchair. 

'‘Still time," he muttered. "I wonder whether 
she'll come? If she don't — if she refuses " 

And sighing, he took out a cigarette, lit it, and 
throwing back his head, meditatively watched the 
smoke-rings as they curled upward. 

"I'd give something to know how much the police 
have actually discovered," he continued, speaking to 
himself, as he held his cigarette for a few moments at 
arm's length. "If they've really discovered Vittorina's 
object in visiting London, then I must be wary not to 
betray my existence. Already the Ambassador must 
have had his suspicions aroused, but, fortunately, her 
mouth is closed for ever. She cannot now betray the 
secret which she held, nor can she utter any wild 
denunciations. Our only fear is that the police may 
possibly discover Egisto in Lucca, make inquiries of 
him, and thus obtain a key to the whole matter. 
Our only hope, however, is that Egisto, hearing of the 
fatal termination of Vittorina’s journey, and not 
desiring to court inquiry, has wisely fled. If he has 
remained in Lucca after writing that most idiotic 
letter, he deserves all the punishment he'll get for 
being such a confounded imbecile." 

Then, with an expression of disgust, he smoked on 
in a lazy, indolent attitude, regardless of the shabbiness 
and squalor of his surroundings. 

"It is fortunate," he continued at last, speaking 
slowly to himself — "very fortunate, indeed, that 
Arnoldo should have met this cosmopolitan friend of 
his. He evidently knows something, but does not 
intend to tell us. One thing is evident — he can't 
have the slightest suspicion of the real facts as we 
know 'them; but, on the other hand, there seems no 
doubt that the police have ascertained something — 
how much, it is impossible to tell. That the Italian 
Ambassador has made representations to the Home 
Office is quite correct. I knew it days ago. Therefore 


Her Ladyship’s Secret 


71 


his other statements are likely to be equally true. 
By Jove!” he added, starting suddenly to his feet. 
“By Jove! If Egisto should be surprised by the 
police, the fool is certain to make a clean breast of the 
whole thing in order to save his own neck. Then 
will come the inevitable crisis ! Dio ! Such a 
catastrophe is too terrible to contemplate.” 

He drew a deep breath, murmured some inaudible 
words, and for a long time sat consuming cigarette 
after cigarette. Then, glancing at his watch again, 
and finding it past eleven, he rose and stretched him- 
self, saying — 

“She’s not coming. Well, I suppose I must go to 
her.” 

Quickly he took from his bag a clean shirt, and 
assuming a light covert-coat and a crush hat, he was 
once again transformed into a gentleman. By the aid 
of a vesta he found his way down the dark, carpet- 
less stairs, and, hurrying along, soon gained Shaftes- 
bury Avenue, where he sprang into a hansom and 
gave the man instructions to drive to Sussex Square, 
Hyde Park. 

In twenty minutes the conveyance pulled up before 
the wide portico of a handsome but rather gloomy- 
looking house at the corner of Stanhope Street and 
the Square, and alighting, Malvano ascended the 
steps and rang the bell. His summons was answered 
by a footman, who, recognizing him at once, exclaimed, 
“Her ladyship is at home, sir;” and ushered him into 
a well-furnished morning-room, leaving him and clos- 
ing the door. 

A few moments elapsed, when the man returned, 
and Malvano, with the air of one perfectly acquainted 
\yith the arrangements of the house, followed him up 
the wide, well-lit staircase to the drawing-rooni, a 
great apartment on the first floor resplendent with 
huge mirrors, gilt furniture, and costly bric-a-brac. 

Seated in an armchair at the further end of the 
room beside a table whereon was a shaded lamp, sat 


7 * 


Her Ladyship’s Secret 


a small, ugly woman, whose aquiline face was wizened 
by age, whose hair was an unnatural flaxen tint, and 
whose cheeks were not altogether devoid of artificial 
colouring. 

“So you are determined to see me?” she exclaimed 
petulantly, raising her brows as she turned in her 
chair to face her visitor. 

“I am/' he answered simply, seating himself without 
hesitation in a chair near her. 

Her greeting was the reverse of cordial. As she 
spoke her lips parted displaying her even rows of 
false teeth ; as she moved, her dress of rich black silk 
rustled loudly ; and as she placed her book upon the 
table with a slight sigh, the fine diamonds on her bony, 
claw-like hand sparkled with a thousand fires. 

“Well, why have you come — at this hour, too?” 
she inquired with a haughtiness which she always 
assumed towards her servants and inferiors. She sat 
rigid, immovable; and Malvano, student of character 
that he was, saw plainly that she had braced herself 
for an effort. 

“I asked you to come to me, and you have refused,” 
he said, folding his arms calmly and looking straight 
into her rouged and powdered face ; “therefore I have 
come to you.” 

“For what purpose? Surely we could have met at 
the Bonciani ?” 

“True, but it was imperative that I should see you 
to-night.” 

“More complications — eh ?” 

“Yes,” he replied, “more complications — serious 
ones.” 

“Serious!” her ladyship gasped, turning instantly 
pale. “Is the truth known?” she demanded quickly. 
“Tell me at once; don’t keep me in suspense.” 

“Be patient for a moment, and I’ll explain my 
object in calling,” the Doctor said gravely. “Compose 
yourself, and listen.” 

The Countess of Marshfield drew her skirts around 


Her Ladyship’s Secret 


73 


her and moved uneasily in her chair. She was well 
known in London society, a woman whose eccen- 
tricities had for years afforded plenty of food for the 
gossips, and whose very name was synonymous with 
senile coquetry. Her age was fully sixty-five, yet, 
like many other women of positon, she delighted in 
the delusion that she was still young, attractive, and 
fascinating. Her attitude towards young marriageable 
men would have been nauseating were it not so abso- 
lutely ludicrous; and the way in which she manipu- 
lated her fan at night caused her to be ridiculed by 
all the exclusive set in which she moved. 

The dead earl, many years her senior, had achieved 
brilliant success in the Crimea, and his name was in- 
scribed upon the roll of England’s heroes. Ever since 
his death, twenty years ago, however, she had been 
notable on account of her foolish actions, her spas- 
modic generosity to various worthless institutions, 
her wild speculations in rotten companies, and her 
extraordinary eccentricities. As she sat waiting for 
her visitor to commence, her thin blue lips twitched 
nervously, and between her eyes was the deep furrow 
that appeared there whenever she was unduly agitated. 
But even then she could not resist the opportunity 
for coquetry, for, taking up her small ivory fan, she 
opened it, and, slowly waving it to and fro, glanced 
at him across it, her lips parted in a smile. 

But of all men Malvano was one of the least sus- 
ceptible to feminine blandishments, especially those of 
such a painfully ugly, artificial person as Lady Marsh- 
field; therefore, heedless of her sudden change of 
manner towards him, he said bluntly — 

“The police have already discovered some facts 
regarding Vittorina.” 

“Of her past?” she cried, starting forward. 

“No of her death,” he answered. 

“Have they discovered whether or not it was 
murder?” she inquired, her bejewelled hand trembling 
perceptibly. 


74 


Her Ladyship’s Secret 


“They have no doubt that it was murder,” he 
replied. “They accept the doctor's theory, and, more- 
over, as you already know, the Italian Embassy in 
London are pressing the matter.” 

“They suspect at the Embassy — eh?” she observed 
sharply, regarding him with her dark eyes. 

“Without doubt. It can scarcely come as a sur- 
prise that they are endeavouring to get at the truth. 
One thing, however, is in our favour ; and that is, she 
cannot tell what she knew. If she were still alive, 
Fm confident the whole affair would have been exposed 
before this.” 

“And you would have been under arrest,” she ob- 
served with a grim smile. 

He raised his shoulders to his ears, exhibited his 
palms, grinned, but did not reply. 

“How have you ascertained this about the police?” 
her ladyship continued. 

“Arnoldo is acquainted with the Queen's messenger 
who carries despatches between the Foreign Office 
and the British Ambassador in Italy. The messenger 
knows everything, but refuses to say much.” 

“Knows everything !” she cried in alarm. “What do 
you mean ? Has our secret really been divulged ?” 

“No,” answered he. “He is not aware of the true 
facts, but he knows how far the knowledge of Scotland 
Yard extends.” 

“What's his name ?” 

“Tristram. Captain Tristram.” 

“Do you know him ?” 

“No.” 

“Then don't make his acquaintance,” the eccentric 
woman urged with darkening countenance. “He's no 
doubt a dangerous friend.” 

“But we may obtain from him some useful know- 
ledge. You know the old saying about being fore- 
warned.” 

“Our warnings must come from Livorno,” she 
answered briefly. 


Her Ladyship’s Secret 


75 


“That will be impossible.’’ 

“Why?” 

“Gemma has unfortunately fallen in love.” 

“Love! Bah!” she cried in astonishment. “With 
whom ?” 

“With an Englishman,” he answered. “Arnoldo 
saw them together several times when in Livorno last 
week.” 

“Who is he?” 

“His name is Armytage — Charles Armytage. 

He ” 

“Charles Armytage!” her ladyship echoed, starting 
from her chair. “And he is in love with Gemma ?” 

“No doubt he is. He intends to marry her.” 

“But they must never marry — never!” she cried 
quickly. “They must be parted immediately, or our 
secret will at once be out.” 

“How? I don’t understand,” he said, with a puz- 
zled expression. “Surely Gemma, of all persons, is 
still friendly disposed ? She owes much to us.” 

“Certainly,” Lady Marshfield answered. “But was 
she not present with Vittorina on that memorable 
night in Livorno? Did she not witness with her own 
eyes that which we witnessed?” 

“Well, what of that ? We have nothing to fear from 
her.” 

“Alas! we have. A word from her would expose 
the whole affair,” the wizen-faced woman declared, 
both hands clenched vehemently. “By some means 
or other we must part her from Armytage.’' 

“And by doing so you will at once make her your 
enemy.” 

“No, your own enemy, Doctor Malvano,” she ex- 
claimed, correcting him haughtily. “I am blameless 
in this matter.” 

He looked straight into her dark, sunken eyes, and 
smiled grimly. 

“It is surely best to preserve her friendship,” he 
urged. “We have enemies enough, in all conscience.” 


76 


Her Ladyship’s Secret 


“Reflect,” she answered quickly. “Reflect for a 
moment what exposure means to us. If Gemma 
marries Charles Armytage, then our secret is no longer 
safe.” 

“But surely she has no object in denouncing us, 
especially as in doing so she must inevitably implicate 
herself,” he observed. 

“No,” she said gravely, after a brief pause. “In 
this matter I have my own views. They must be 
parted, Filippo. Armytage has the strongest motive 
— the motive of a fierce and terrible vengeance — for 
revealing everything.” 

“But why has Armytage any motive in denouncing 
us ? You speak in enigmas.” 

“The secret of his motive is mine alone,” the 
haggard-eyed woman answered. “Seek no explana- 
V tion, for you can never gain knowledge of the truth 
until too late, when the whole affair is exposed. It is 
sufficient for me to tell you that he must be parted 
from Gemma.” 

Her wizened face was bloodless and brown beneath 
its paint and powder, her blue lips were closed tight, 
and a hard expression showed itself at the corners of 
her cruel mouth. 

“Then Gemma is actually as dangerous to us as 
Vittorina was ?” Malvano said, deeply reflecting. 

“More dangerous,” she declared in a low, harsh 
voice. “She must be parted from Armytage at once. 
Every moment’s delay increases our danger. Expo- 
sure and disgrace are imminent. In this matter we 
must risk everything to prevent betrayal.” 


CHAPTER IX 


BENEATH THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE. 

August passed slowly but gaily in lazy Leghorn. 
The town lay white beneath the fiery sun-glare 
through those blazing, breathless hours ; the cloudless 
sky was of that intense blue which one usually 
associates with Italy, and by day the deserted Pas- 
seggio of tamarisks and ilexes, beside the almost 
waveless sea, was for ever enlightened by the chirp of 
that unseen harbinger of heat, the cicale. Soon, how- 
ever, the season waned, the stormy libeccio blew fre- 
quently, rendering outdoor exercise impossible; but 
Charles Armytage still lingered on at Gemma's side, 
driving with her in the morning along the sea-road to 
Ardenza and Antignano, or beyond as far as the high- 
up villa in which lived and died Smollett, the English 
historian, or ascending to the venerated shrine of the 
Madonna of Montenero, where the little village peeps 
forth white and scattered on the green hillside over- 
looking the wide expanse of glassy sea. Their after- 
noons were usually spent amid the crowd of chatterers 
at Pancaldi’s baths, and each evening they dined to- 
gether at one or other of the restaurants beside the sea. 

One morning late in September, when Armytage’s 
coffee was brought to his room at the Grand Hotel, 
the waiter directed his attention to an official-looking 
note lying upon the tray. He had just risen, and 
was standing at the window gazing out upon the 

77 


78 Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 

distant islands indistinct in the morning haze, and 
thinking of the words of assurance and affection his 
well-beloved had uttered before he had parted from 
her at the door, after the theatre on the previous 
night. Impatiently he tore open the note, and care- 
lessly glanced at its contents. Then, with an ex- 
pression of surprise, he carefully reread the letter, 
saying aloud — 

“Strange! I wonder what he wants ?” 

The note was a formal one, bearing on a blue cameo 
official stamp the superscription, “British Consulate, 
Leghorn/' and ran as follows : — 

“Dear Sir, 

“I shall be glad if you can make it con- 
venient to call at the Consulate this morning between 
eleven and one, as I desire to speak to you upon an 
important and most pressing matter which I have 
reason to think concerns you nearly. 

“Yours faithfully, 

“John Hutchinson, Her Majesty’s Consul.” 

“Hutchinson,” he repeated to himself. “Is the 
Consul here called Hutchinson? It must be the Jack 
Hutchinson of whom Tristram spoke. He called 
him 'jovial Jack Hutchinson.' I wonder what’s the 
'pressing matter'? Some infernal worry, I suppose. 
Perhaps some dun or other in town has written to 
him for my address.” 

He paused, his eyes fixed seriously upon the distant 
sea. 

“No !” he exclaimed aloud at last. “Her Majesty's 
Consul must wait. I've promised to take Gemma 
driving this morning. I suppose this chap Hutchin- 
son is some dry-as-dust old fossil, or else some stupid, 
head-swollen ass, who sits in a frowsy office from ten 
to three, signs his name half a dozen times, smokes 
the best cigars, draws a handsome salary from the 
jnuch-suffering British tax-payer, and scoops in any 


Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 79 

amount of fees. Good thing to be a Consul !” and he 
tossed the letter upon the table, and sat down to his 
coffee. “Some of them rum fellows, though. I par- 
ticularly remember one down in a more southerly 
part of the Mediterranean, as frowsy a frump as you 
could ever hope to meet,” he added, sighing at the 
recollection. 

Presently, when he had shaved, and assumed his 
suit of cool white ducks, the official letter again caught 
his eye, and he took it up. 

“I suppose, after all, it’s only decent behaviour to go 
round and see what’s the matter,” he muttered aloud. 
“Yes, I’ll go, and drive with Gemma afterwards.” 

Then he leisurely finished his toilet, strolled out 
into the Viale, and entering one of the little open 
cabs, was driven rapidly to the wide, handsome Piazza 
Vittorio Emanuele, where on the front of a great old 
palazzo at the further end were displayed a flagstaff 
surmounted by the English crown and an escutcheon 
of the British Royal arms. The Union Jack waved 
from the flagstaff, for Her Majesty’s ships Anson and 
Vulcan were in port. The cathedral clock opposite 
showed that it was already half-past eleven, and as 
he ascended the stairs he noticed that the approach 
to the Consulate of Leghorn was very much more 
imposing than those of the Consulates he had had 
occasion to visit during his many journeys east and 
west. 

On the first floor, passing through an entrance of 
bank-like appearance, with its mahogany portals and 
glass door, he entered the first of a handsome suite of 
offices, which certainly did justice to the dignity and 
prestige of the greatest country in the world. On 
the walls were displayed the Royal arms, together 
with a few familiar “Notices to Seamen,” a huge and 
wonderful scale of consular fees fixed by the Foreign 
Office, and a warning to all and sundry regarding 
the use of the British flag. A tall, well-built, fierce- 
moustached Italian concierge , who looked as if he 


8o Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 

might once have been an elegant gendarme of the 
Prince of , Monaco, inquired his business, and took his 
card into an inner room on the right, the private office 
of the Consul. 

After a lapse of a few minutes the concierge 
returned, and with ceremony ushered him into the 
presence of the representative of the British Foreign 
Office. 

The room was large, lofty, and airy, with windows 
overlooking the great Piazza, the centre of Livornese 
life. The furniture was antique and comfortable, and 
testified to the taste of its owner; the writing-table 
littered with documents clearly proved that the office 
of Consul at Leghorn was no sinecure, and the book- 
cases were stocked with well-selected and imposing 
works of reference. Over the fireplace hung a large 
steel engraving of Her Majesty, and on the mantel- 
shelf some signed portraits of celebrities. 

“Youv’e enjoyed your stay in Leghorn, I hope, ,, 
the Consul observed rather stiffly, after inviting his 
visitor to a seat on the opposite side of his table. 

“Very much,” Armytage answered, sinking into the 
chair. 

“You'll excuse me for one moment,” the Consul 
said; and scribbling something he touched the bell, 
and the concierge summoned the Vice-Consul, a slim, 
tall young Englishman, to whom he gave some 
directions. 

Contrary to Charles Armytage’s expectations, Mr. 
Consul Hutchinson had, notwithstanding his profes- 
sional frigidity and gravity of manner, the easy-going, 
good-natured bearing of the genial man of the world. 
He was a fair, somewhat portly man, comfortably 
built, shaven save for a small, well-trimmed moustache, 
the very picture of good health, whose face beamed 
with good humour, and in every line of whose counte- 
nance was good fellowship portrayed. 

There were few skippers up or down the Mediter- 
ranean — or seamen, for the matter of that — who did 


Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 8i 

not know Consul Hutchinson at Leghorn, and who 
had not at some time or another received little kind- 
nesses at his hands. From “Gib.” to “Constant.” 
Jack Hutchinson had the reputation of being the best, 
most good-natured, and happiest of all Her Majesty’s 
Consuls, devoted to duty, not to be trifled with 
certainly, but ever ready to render immediate assist- 
ance to the Englishman in difficulties. 

“Well,” he exclaimed, looking across at Armytage 
at last, when they were alone again, “I am glad you 
have called, because I have something to communicate 
in confidence to you.” 

“In confidence?” Armytage repeated, puzzled. 

Mr. Consul Hutchinson, still preserving his pro- 
fessional air of dignity as befitted his office, leaned 
one elbow upon the table, and looking straight into 
his visitor’s face, said — 

“The matter is a purely private, and somewhat 
painful one. You will, I hope, excuse what I am 
about to say, for I assure you it is in no spirit of 
presumption that I venture to speak to you. Remem- 
ber, you are a British subject, and I am here in order 
to assist, sometimes even to advise, any subject of 
Her Majesty.” 

“I quite understand,” Armytage said, mystified at 
the Consul’s rather strange manner. 

“Well,” Hutchinson went on slowly and delib- 
erately, “I am informed that you are acquainted with 
a lady here in Leghorn named Fanetti — Gemma 
Fanetti. Is that so?” 

“Certainly. Why?” 

“How long have you known her? It is not out of 
idle curiosity that I ask.” 

“Nearly seven months.” 

“She is Florentine. I presume you met her in 
Florence ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Were you formally introduced by any friend who 
knew her ?” 


82 Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 

“No,” he answered, after slight hesitation. “We 
met quite casually/' 

“And you followed her here?” 

“No. We met here again accidentally. I had no 
idea she was in Leghorn. Since our first meeting, I 
have been in London several months, and had no 
knowledge of her address,” he replied. 

“And you are, I take it, in ignorance of her past?” 
Hutchinson said, regarding him with a calm, search- 
ing look, and twisting his pen between his fingers. 

Armytage sat silent for a few moments, then quickly 
recovering himself, said a trifle haughtily — 

“I really don't think I’m called upon to answer 
such a question. I cannot see any reason whatever 
for this cross-examination regarding my private 
affairs.” 

“Well,” the Consul exclaimed seriously, “the reason 
is briefly this. It is an extremely painful matter, but 
I may as well explain at once. You are known by the 
authorities here to be an associate with this lady — 
Gemma Fanetti.” 

“What of that?” he cried in surprise. 

“From what I can understand, this lady has a past — 
a past which the police have investigated.” 

“The police ! What do you mean ?” he cried, start- 
ing up. 

“Simply this,” answered the Consul gravely. 
“Yesterday I received a call from the Questore, and 
he told me in confidence that you, a British subject, 
were the close associate of a lady whose past, if 
revealed, would be a startling and unpleasant revela- 
tion to you, her friend. The authorities had, he 
further said, resolved to order her to leave Leghorn, 
or remain on penalty of arrest; and in order that 
you, an English gentleman, might have time to end 
your acquaintance, he suggested that it might be as 
well for me to warn you of what the police intended 
doing. It is to do this that I have asked you here 
to-day.” 


Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 83 

Armytage sat pale, silent, open-mouthed. 

“Then the police intend to hound the Signorina 
Fanetti from Leghorn ?” he observed blankly. 

“The Italian police possess power to expel sum- 
marily from a town any person of whom they have 
suspicion,” the Consul replied calmly. 

“But what do they suspect ?” he cried, bewildered. 
“You speak as if she were some common criminal or 
adventuress/’ 

“I have, unfortunately, no further knowledge of the 
discovery they have made regarding her. It must, 
however, be some serious allegation, or they would 
not go to the length of expelling her from the city.” 

“But why should she be expelled?” he protested 
angrily. “She has committed no offence. Surely 
there is some protection for a defenceless woman !” 

Hutchinson raised his eyebrows and shrugged his 
shoulders, an expressive gesture one soon acquires 
after residence in Italy. 

“The Questore has supreme power in such a mat- 
ter,” he said. “He is a very just and honourable 
official, and I am sure he would never have taken 
these steps to avoid you disgrace if there were not 
some very strong reasons.” 

Charles Armytage, leaning upon the edge of the 
Consul’s table, held down his head in deep contem- 
plation. 

“Then to-morrow they will order her to quit this 
place?” he observed thoughfully. “It’s unjust and 
brutal ! Such treatment of a peaceful woman is 
scandalous !” 

“But remember you’ve admitted that you have no 
knowledge of her past,” Hutchinson said. “Is it not 
possible that the police have discovered some fact she 
has concealed from you ?” 

“It’s an infernal piece of tyranny !’’ Armytage cried 
fiercely. “I suppose the police have fabricated some 
extraordinary allegations against her, and want money 
to hush it up. They want to levy blackmail.” 


84 Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 

“No, no,” Jack Hutchinson said, his manner at 
once relaxed as he rose and crossed to the window, 
his hands behind his back. “The position is a simple 
one,” he continued, looking him straight in the face. 
“The police have evidently discovered that this lady 
is either not what she represents herself to be, or that 
some extraordinary mystery is attached to her ; there- 
fore cut her acquaintance, my dear sir. Take my 
advice. It will save you heaps of bother.” 

“I can't,” the other answered hoarsely. “Til never 
forsake her !” 

“Not if she's hounded from town to town by the 
police, like this?” 

“No. I love her,” he replied brokenly. 

Hutchinson sighed. A silence fell between them 
deep and complete. 

At last the Consul spoke in a grave tone. His 
professional air had relaxed, as it always did when he 
desired to assist an Englishman in distress. 

“Before you love her,” he suggested, “would it not 
be as well to ask her what chapter of her life she has 
concealed? If she really loves you, she will no doubt 
tell you everything. Is it not an excellent test?” 

“But that will not alter the decision of the 
Questore,” Armytage observed woefully. 

“No, that's true. The lady must leave Leghorn 
this evening. Take my advice and part from her,” 
he added sympathetically. “In a few weeks you will 
forget. And if you would spare her the disgrace of 
being sent out of Leghorn, urge her to leave of her 
own accord. If you will pledge your word that she 
shall leave to-day, I will at once see the Questore, and 
beg him to suspend the orders he is about to give.” 

“I love Gemma, and intend to marry her.” 

“Surely not without a very clear knowledge of her 
past ?” 

“Already I have decided to make her my wife,” 
Armytage said, his face set and pale. “What the 
oolice may allege will not influence me in any way.” 


Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 85 

“Ah ! I fear you are hopelessly infatuated/' Hutch- 
inson observed. 

“Yes, hopelessly/' 

“Then I suppose you will leave Leghorn with her? 
That she must go is absolutely imperative. In that 
case, if I may advise you, I should certainly not only 
leave Leghorn, but leave Italy altogether." 

“What !”■ he cried indignantly. “Will the police of 
Milan or Venice act in the same cowardly way that 
they have done here ?" 

“Most probably. When she leaves, the police will 
without doubt take good care to know her destination, 
and inform the authorities of the next town she enters. 
Your only plan is to leave Italy." 

“Thanks for your advice," the other replied in a 
despondent tone. “Loving her as I do, what you 
have just told me, and what you have hinted, have 
upset me and destroyed my peace of mind. I fear I’m 
not quite myself, and must apologize for any impatient 
words I have used. I shall act upon your suggestion, 
and leave Italy." 

Then he paused, but after a few moments raised his 
head, saying — 

“You have been good enough to give me friendly 
advice upon many points ; may I encroach upon your 
good nature still further? Tell me, do you think it 
wise to acquaint her with the facts you have told 
me?" 

Hutchinson looked at the man before him, and saw 
how hopelessly he was in love. He had seen them 
driving together, and had long ago noticed how 
beautiful his companion was. 

“No," he answered at last. “If you intend to marry 
her, there is really no necessity for demanding an 
immediate explanation. But as soon as you are out 
of Italy, and you have an opportunity, I should cer- 
tainly invite her to tell you the whole truth." 

Then, after some further conversation, the two 
men shook hands, and Charles Armytage slowly made 


86 Beneath the Red, White, and Blue 

his way downstairs and out across the wide, sunlit 
Piazza. 

From the window Consul Hutchinson watched his 
retreating figure, and noticed how self-absorbed he 
was as he strode along. His heart had gone out to 
sympathize in this brief interview, and a strong desire 
came upon him to help and protect the lonely English- 
man. “Poor devil !” he muttered, “he's badly hit, 
and I fear he has a troublous time before him. I wish 
to God I could help him. But now to work !” and he 
flung himself into his chair with a sigh, and com- 
menced to examine some ship's papers which the pro- 
Consul at that moment handed him. 


CHAPTER X 


THE MYSTERY OF GEMMA. 

When Armitage entered Gemma’s pretty salon, the 
window of which commanded a wide view of the blue 
Mediterranean, she rose quickly from the silken divan 
with a glad cry of welcome. She was veiled and 
gloved ready to go out, wearing a smart costume of 
pearl grey, with a large black hat which suited her 
fair face admirably. 

“How late you are !” she exclaimed a trifle impetu- 
ously, pouting prettily as their lips met. “You said 
eleven o’clock, and it’s now nearly one.” 

“I’ve had a good deal to see after,” he stammered. 
“Business worries from London.” 

“Poor Nino!” she exclaimed sympathetically in 
her soft Italian, putting up her tiny hand and stroking 
his hair tenderly. Nino was the pet name she had long 
ago bestowed upon him. “Poor Nino! I didn’t know 
you were worried, or I would not have complained. 
Excuse, won’t you ?” 

“Of course, dearest,” he answered, sinking a trifle 
wearily into a chair; whilst she, regarding him with 
some surprise, reseated herself upon the divan, her 
little russet-brown shoe stretched forth coqucttishly 
from beneath the hem of her well-made skirt. 

The room was small, but artistic. The painted 
stone floor was carpetless, as are all Italian houses in 
summer, the furniture was upholstered in crimson silk 
and old-gold, a tall lamp stood near the window, 

87 


88 


The Mystery of Gemma 


artificial flowers ornamenting its great lace shade, 
the walls were decorated with many pictures and 
photographs, and in the centre of the frescoed ceiling 
was suspended a huge Japanese umbrella. Its cosi- 
ness and general arrangement everywhere betrayed 
the daily presence of an artistic woman ; and as he sat 
there with his eyes fixed upon her, he became intoxi- 
cated by her marvellous beauty. There was a softness 
about her face, an ingenuous sweetness which always 
entranced him, holding him spell-bound when in her 
presence. 

“You are tired,” she said in a low, caressing tone. 
“Will you have some vermouth or marsala? Let me 
tell Margherita to bring you some.” 

“No,” he answered quickly; “I had a vermouth at 
Campari's as I passed. I'm a trifle upset to-day.” 

“Why?” she inquired quickly, regarding him with 
some astonishment. 

He hesitated. His eyes were riveted upon her. 
The sun-shutters were closed, the glare of day subdued, 
and he was debating whether or not he should relate 
to her in that dim half-light all that had been told 
him an hour ago. In those brief moments of silence he 
remembered how, on the afternoon he had encountered 
Tristram at Pancaldi's, she had expressed surprise that 
he should love her so blindly, without seeking to 
inquire into her past. He remembered his foolish 
reply. He had told her he wished to know nothing. 
If he demanded any explanation now, it would con- 
vince her that he doubted. Yes, Hutchinson’s advice 
was best. At present he must act diplomatically, and 
remain silent. 

“The reason why I am not myself to-day is because 
I must leave you, Gemma,” he said slowly at last, in a 
low, earnest voice. 

“Leave me?” she gasped, starting and turning pale 
beneath her veil. 

“Yes,” he replied quickly. 4 “It is imperative that 
I should start for Paris to-night.” 


The Mystery of Gemma 


89 


“Has my Nino had bad news this morning ?” she 
asked in a sympathetic tone, bending and extending 
her hand until it touched his. 

Its contact thrilled him. In her clear blue eyes he 
could distinguish the light of unshed tears. 

“Yes,” he answered — “news which makes it neces- 
sary that I should be in Paris at the earliest possible 
moment. 

“And how long shall you remain ?” she inquired. 

“I shall not return to Italy,” he replied decisively, 
his eyes still upon hers. 

“You will not come back to me?” she cried blankly. 
“What have I done, Nino? Tell me, what have I 
done that you should thus forsake me ?” 

“I do not intend to forsake you,” he answered, 
grasping her hand. “I will never forsake you ; I love 
you far too well.” 

“You love me!” she echoed, tears coursing down 
her cheeks. “Then why go away and leave me alone ? 
You must have seen how fondly I love you in 
return.” 

“I shall not go alone,” he answered her, rising and 
placing his arms tenderly about her neck. “That is, 
if you will go with me.” 

“With you?” she exclaimed, her face suddenly 
brightening. “With you, Nino?” 

There was a deep silence. She gazed into his dark, 
serious eyes with an expression of love and devotion 
more eloquent than words; and he, still holding her 
hand, bent until their lips met in a fierce, passionate 
caress. 

“Surely you do not fear to travel with me without 
(regard for the convenances?” he said. 

“Have we not already set them at naught?” she 
answered, looking earnestly into his face. “Unfor- 
tunately, I have no chaperone , no friends; therefore, 
according to Italian manners, your presence here in 
my house is against all the laws of etiquette;” and 
she laughed a strange, hollow laugh through her tears. 


90 


The Mystery of Gemma 


“We can, I think, Gemma, set aside etiquette, loving 
each other as we do !” he exclaimed, pressing her hand. 
“Let us go together to London, and there marry.” 

“Why not marry in Italy ?” she suggested, after 
a pause. “Marriage at your British Consulate is 
binding.” 

The mention of the Consulate brought back to his 
memory all that Hutchinson had said. Her words 
seemed to imply that she did not wish to leave 
Tuscany. 

“Why in Italy ?” he inquired. “You have no tie 
here !” 

She hesitated for a moment. 

“No, none whatever,” she assured him in a voice 
which sounded strangely harsh and unconvincing. 
He attributed her agitation to the excitement of the 
moment and the fervency of her love. 

“Then why do you wish to remain ?” he inquired 
bluntly. 

“I have reasons,” she replied mechanically, her 
eyes slowly wandering round the room. Suddenly 
she rose, and hastily snatching up an open letter that 
was lying upon the mantelshelf, crushed it within the 
palm of her gloved hand. He was sitting with his 
back to the mantel, therefore he saw nothing of this 
strange action, and believed, when she went out of the 
room a moment later, that she went to speak with her 
servant. 

True, she spoke some words with Margherita in the 
kitchen, but placing the letter upon the burning char- 
coal, she watched the flame slowly consume it. 

Then, with a parting order to Margherita uttered 
in a tone distinctly audible to her lover, she returned 
smilingly to his side. 

“For what reason do you want to remain here?’ 1 
he inquired when she had again reseated herself, with 
a word of apology for her absence. 

“It is only natural that I should be loth to leave m3? 
own country,” she answered evasively, laughing. 


The Mystery of Gemma 


9i 


“No further motive ?” he asked, a trifle incredu- 
lously. 

“Well, I have many acquaintances in Florence, in 
Milan, and Rome.” 

“And you desire to remain in Italy on their 
account?” he exclaimed. “Only the other day you ex- 
pressed satisfaction at the suggestion of leaving Italy.” 

“I have since changed my mind,” she replied in a 
low, strained voice. 

“And you intend to remain ?” 

“Not if you are compelled to leave Livorno, Nino,” 
she answered with that sweet smile which always 
entranced him. 

In her attitude he detected mystery. She appeared 
striving to hide from him some important fact, and 
he suddenly determined to discover what was its 
nature. Why, he wondered, should she desire to 
remain in Tuscany after the satisfaction she had 
already expressed at the prospect of life in England? 

“I am compelled to go to-night,” he said. “The 
train leaves at half-past nine, and we shall take the 
through wagon-lit from Pisa to Paris at midnight. 
If you'll be ready, I'll wire to Rome to secure our 
berths in the car.” 

“Then you really mean to leave?” she asked in a 
tone of despair. 

“Certainly,” he replied, puzzled at her strange 
manner. 

“It will perhaps be better for me to remain,” she 
observed with a deep sigh. 

“Why?” 

“If we marry, you would tire of me very, very soon. 
Besides, you really know so little of me;” and she 
regarded him gravely with her great, clear, wide-open 
eyes. 

“Ah, that's just it!” he cried. “You have told me 
nothing.” 

She shrugged her shoulders with a careless air, and 
smiled, 


92 


The Mystery of Gemma 


"You have never inquired/’ she answered. 

"Then I ask now,” he said. 

"And I am unable to answer you — unable to tell 
the truth, Nino,” she replied brokenly, her trembling 
hand seeking his. 

"Why unable?” he demanded, sitting erect and 
staring at her in blank surprise. 

"Because — because I love you too well to deceive 
you,” she sobbed. Then she added, "No, after all, it 
will be best for us to part — best for you. If you knew 
all, as you must some day — if we married, you would 
only hate me ;” and she burst into a torrent of blinding 
tears. 

"Hate you, piccina — why?” he asked, uttering the 
term of endearment which she had taught him in the 
early days of their acquaintance, and slipping his arm 
around her slim waist. 

With a sudden movement she raised her veil and 
wiped away the tears with her little lace handkerchief. 

"Ah ! forgive me,” she exclaimed apologetically. 
"I did not believe I was so weak. But I love you, 
Nino. I cannot bear the thought of being parted 
from you.” 

"There is surely no necessity to part,” he said, pur- 
posely disregarding the strange self-accusation she had 
just uttered. 

"You must go to Paris. Therefore we must part,” 
she said, sighing deeply. 

"Then you will not accompany me?” 

Her blue eyes, child-like in their innocence, were 
fixed upon his. They were again filled with tears. 

"For your sake it is best that we should part,” she 
answered hoarsely. 

"Why? I cannot understand your meaning,” he 
cried. "We love one another. What do you fear?” 

"I fear myself.” 

"Yourself?” he echoed. Then, drawing her closer 
to him, he exclaimed in a low, intense voice, "Come, 
Gemma, confide in me. Tell me why you desire tQ 


The Mystery of Gemma 93 

remain here ; why you are acting so strangely 
to-day.” 

She rose slowly from the divan, a slim, woeful 
figure, and swayed unevenly as she answered — 

“No, Nino, do not ask me.” 

“But you still love me?” he demanded earnestly. 
“Have you not just expressed readiness to marry 
me ?” 

“True,” she replied, pale and trembling. “I will 
marry you if you remain here in Livorno. But if 
you leave — if you leave, then we must part.” 

“My journey is absolutely necessary,” he declared. 
“If it were not, I should certainly remain with you.” 

“In a week or a fortnight at most, you can return, 
I suppose? Till then, I shall remain awaiting you.” 

“No,” he replied firmly. “When I leave Italy, I 
shall not return.” Then, after a slight pause, he added 
in a low, sympathetic tone, “Some secret oppresses 
you, Gemma. Why not take me into your confidence ?” 

“Because — well, because it is utterly impossible,” 
she stammered in a low, tremulous tone. 

“Impossible! Yet we love one another. Is your 
past such a profound secret, then?” 

“All of us, I suppose, have our secrets, Nino,” she 
replied earnestly. “I, like others, have mine.” 

“Is it of such a character that I, your affianced 
husband, must not know?” he asked in a voice of 
bitter reproach. 

“Yes,” she answered nervously. “Even to you, 
the man I love, I am unable to divulge the strange 
story which must remain locked for ever within my 
heart.” 

“Then you have no further confidence in me?” he 
observed despairingly. 

“Ah ! Yes, I have, Nino. It is my inability to 
tell everything, to explain myself, and to present my 
actions to you in a true light, that worries me so.” 

“But why can’t you tell me everything?” hq 
demanded. 


94 


The Mystery of Gemma 


“Because I fear to.” 

“I love you, Gemma,” he assured her tenderly. 
“Surely you do not doubt the strength of my 
affection ?” 

“No,” she whispered, agitated, her trembling fingers 
closing upon his. “I know you love me. What I 
fear is the dire consequences of the exposure of my 
secret.” 

“Then, to speak plainly, you are in dread of the 
actions of some person who holds power over you?” 
he hazarded. 

She was silent. Her heart beat wildly, her breast 
heaved and fell quickly; her chin sank upon her 
chest in an attitude of utter dejection. 

“Have I guessed the truth?” he asked in a calm, 
serious voice. 

She nodded in the affirmative with a deep-drawn sigh. 

“Who is this person whom you fear?” he inquired 
after a pause brief and painful. 

“Ah ! no, Nino,” she burst forth, trembling with 
agitation she had vainly striven to suppress. “Do not 
ask me that. I can never tell you — never !” 

“But you must — you shall !” he cried fiercely. “I 
love you, and will protect you from all your enemies, 
whoever they may be.” 

“Impossible,” she answered despairingly. “No, let 
us part. You can have no faith in me after my 
wretched admissions of to-day.” 

“I still have every faith in you, darling,” he hastened 
to reassure her. “Only tell me everything, and set 
my mind at rest.” 

“No,” she protested. “I can tell you nothing — 
absolutely nothing.” 

“You prefer, then, that we should be put asunder 
rather than answer my questions ?” 

“I cannot leave Italy with you,” she answered 
simply but harshly. 

“Not if we were to marry in England as soon as the 
legal formalities can be accomplished ?” 


The Mystery of Gemma 95 

‘T am ready to marry you here — to-day if you 
desire,” she said. "But I shall not go to London.” 

"Why?” 

"I have reasons — strong ones,” she answered 
vehemently, ( with a slight shrug of her shoulders. 

"Then your enemies are in London?” he said 
quickly. "Are they English?” 

At that instant the door-bell rang loudly, and both 
listened intently as Margherita answered the some- 
what impetuous summons. There were sounds of low 
talking, and a few moments later the servant, pale- 
faced and scared, entered the room, saying — 

"Signorina! There are two officers of police in the 
house, and they wish to speak with you immediately.” 

"The police!” Gemma gasped, trembling. "Then 
they’ve discovered me !” 

There was a look of unutterable terror in her great 
blue eyes; the light died instantly out of her sweet 
face; she reeled, and would have fallen had not her 
lover started up and clasped her tenderly. Her beauti- 
ful head, with its mass of fair hair, fell inert upon his 
shoulder. This blow, added to the mental strain she 
had already undergone, had proved too much. 

"Nino,” she whispered hoarsely, "you still love me 
— you love me, don’t you ? And you will not believe 
what they allege against me — not one single word?” 


CHAPTER XI 

SILENCE IS BEST. 

“Let the police enter,” Armytage said, still pressing 
her slim figure in his arms. “You know, Gemma, that 
I love you.” 

“No, no,” she cried, trembling; “I will see them 
alone. I must see them alone.” 

“Why?” 

“I cannot bear that you should stand by and hear 
the terrible charge against me,” she answered hoarsely. 
“No, let me go alone to them ;” and she struggled to 
free herself. 

But he grasped her slim wrist firmly, saying, “I love 
you, and will be your protector. If they make allega- 
tions against you, they must prove them. I, the man 
who is to be your husband, may surely know 
truth?” 

“But promise me that you will not heed what 
they say — you will not believe their foul, unfounded 
charges,” she implored, lifting her pale face to his. 

“I believe implicitly in you, Gemma,” he answered 
calmly, looking seriously into her terror-stricken eyes. 
“Let them come in.” 

Then, turning to the faithful Margherita, who had 
stood by in silence and wonderment, he added — 

“Ask them in.” 

Gemma, her hand in that of her lover, stood blanched 
and trembling in the centre of the room as the two 
96 


Silence Is Best 


97 


police officers in plain clothes advanced and, encount- 
ering Armytage, bowed with that politeness which an 
Italian, even though he may be an official, never fails 
to show to his superiors. 

One was a tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man 
with a pleasant face, a pair of dark, piercing eyes, and 
tiny coal-black moustache ; while the other was young- 
er, and, from the bronze of his countenance, evidently 
a Sicilian. 

“We are police officers/’ the elder man exclaimed, 
opening his coat and displaying the badge of a dele- 
gato on his breast. “We would prefer to speak to the 
signorina alone.” 

“I am the closest friend of the signorina,” Armytage 
said calmly. “I am about to make her my wife.” 

The officer shrugged his shoulders, exhibited his 
palms, and a sarcastic smile played about his lips. 

“If I may presume to advise the Signor Conte,” he 
said, still preserving his ineffable politeness, “ I cer- 
tainly think that it would be best for both the signore 
and the signorina if I spoke to her alone.” 

And Gemma, clinging to her lover, gazed implor- 
ingly into his face, adding — 

“Yes, caro. Let them speak to me alone.” 

“No,” the young Englishman answered firmly. 

“But the matter is a delicate one — extremely deli- 
cate,” urged the delegato. “I certainly think that the 
signorina should be allowed to decide whether or not 
you should be present.” 

“In a week or so we shall marry,” declared Army- 
tage. “What concerns the signorina also concerns 
myself.” 

“To please me, caro, will you not go out of the room 
for a moment?” Gemma cried in a low voice of earnest 
supplication. 

Her attitude was that of one who feared the revela- 
tion of some terrible secret, and in those moments her 
lover had become filled with a keen desire to penetrate 
the cloak of mystery which enveloped her. She had 


98 


Silence Is Best 


told him nothing of her past, and all these mysterious 
events had occurred so suddenly that he was bewild- 
ered. The earnestness of her appeals not to be present 
only stirred within him greater curiosity and a stronger 
desire to ascertain the whole truth. In those moments 
her face, previously so bright and innocent, had grown 
perceptibly worn and haggard ; in her eyes was a look 
of blank despair, and as he held her gloved hand she 
seemed to quiver from head to foot. 

“No,” he answered her, after a brief silence ; “I have 
decided to remain and hear what the signor delegato 
has to say.” 

The police official and the trembling woman ex- 
changed quick glances. In the officer's gaze was a look 
of sympathy, for perhaps her beauty had softened his 
impressionable Italian nature ; in her blue eyes was an 
expression of humiliation and abject fear. 

“My mission is very quickly accomplished,” the de- 
legato exclaimed slowly. 

“You intend to arrest me !” Gemma cried hoarsely. 
“I — I have dreaded this for a long time past. I knew 
that, one day or other, you would come for me, and my 
reputation would be ruined for ever.” 

“Listen, signorina,” the official said gravely. “Cer- 
tain information has been obtained by the Questore, 
and upon that information I have been sent here to 
you. I regret very much that the signore is determined 
to remain while I speak to you, for it would have been 
far better for both of you had this matter been settled 
in private. But as he desires to hear all, I will 
proceed.” 

“Yes,” said Armytage, with a tender pressure upon 
the little hand he held. “Speak ; I am ready to hear 
all you have to say.” 

“Well,” the police official continued, turning to 
Gemma, and hesitating slightly in order to present the 
matter as politely as possible, “much as I regret to 
disturb you, signorina, the Questore, after carefully 
considering certain statements before him, has decided 


Silence Is Best 


99 


that your presence is undesirable in Livorno, and, 
further, he wishes me to inform you that to-day you 
must leave this city.” 

Gemma, her face white and drawn, humiliated and 
abased, sighed deeply, then breathed again more freely. 
She had expected arrest, but instead was ordered out 
of Livorno. To say the least, the police had been 
merciful towards her. 

“Then I must leave to-day?” she repeated mechani- 
cally. 

“Yes, signorina. The penalty for remaining here 
after this order of the Questore is immediate arrest,” 
he said. 

“But why is such a course pursued?” Armytage 
asked. “For what reason is the presence of the sig- 
norina deleterious to the city? It all seems very 
remarkable to me.” 

“The information before the Questore is of a con- 
fidential character, signore.” 

“Are you not aware of the allegations against her ?” 

“No,” he replied ; “I have only been deputed to 
warn her to leave Livorno.” 

“Is such a measure frequently resorted to?” 

“Usually we arrest the suspected individual, ques- 
tion him, and afterwards deport him to the railway 
station, if there is not sufficient ground to justify a 
prosecution. In this case there is just a simple warning. 
Only in very exceptional cases is the course followed 
which the Questore is now pursuing.” 

“Then you have no knowledge of the actual charge 
in this case?” 

“No, signore, I have not. “But,” he added,, “the 
signorina must herself know the reason.” 

Armytage turned quickly to her. Their eyes met 
for a single instant. Then she slowly nodded, saying 
in an indistinct voice — 

“Yes, yes, I know only too well the reason of this. 
I must leave Livorno — leave Italy, my own country 
that I love, never to return.” 


IOO 


Silence Is Best 


“That would be the very best course to pursue,” the 
delegato urged. “If you leave Italy, signorina, you 
will, I think, hear no more of the unfortunate affair. 
Indeed, I have strong reasons for believing that the 
Questore has acted in the manner he has done purpose- 
ly, in order that you should be afforded an opportunity 
to leave Italy.” 

“He thinks that exile is preferable to imprison- 
ment,” she said aloud, as if reflecting. '‘Well, per- 
haps he is right;” and she laughed a short, hollow 
laugh. 

“Yes,” urged Armytage, turning again to her; “you 
must leave to-night.” 

She was silent. The police official exchanged glances 
with the tall, good-looking young Englishman, then 
said, bowing politely — 

“I will wish you adieu, signore. A thousand pardons 
for disturbing you ; but it was my duty, therefore pray 
forgive me.” - 

“Certainly; certainly,” he replied; and both men 
went out bowing, leaving Armytage alone with the 
woman he loved. 

“All this is strange — very strange,” he observed 
when they had gone. He was puzzled ; for, after all, 
he now knew no more than what Consul Hutchinson 
had already told him. 

“Yes,” she said slowly, in a voice scarcely above a 
whisper, “ to you it must appear extraordinary, but to 
me, who expected and who dreaded it, it was only what 
might be anticipated. They have warned me out of 
Italy, it’s true ; but if they knew everything,” she 
added — “if they knew everything, I should to-night 
be placed in a criminal's cell.” 

“Why?” 

“Already I have told you it is impossible for me 
to explain,” she answered vehemently, in her voluble 
Italian. “If you really love me, it is surely sufficient 
to know that the police are in ignorance of facts which 
I feared were revealed ; and that they have not 


Silence Is Best 


ioi 


obtained the one item of information necessary to 
effect my ruin and disgrace.” 

“Why do you speak like this ?” he demanded 
quickly. “Has your past life in Florence been so full 
of mystery that you fear its exposure ?” 

“There are certain matters which I desire to keep 
secret — which I will keep secret, even if it costs me the 
loss of you, the man I adore,” she answered fiercely. 

“Then they are matters which surely concern me — 
if I am to be your husband/' he said gravely. 

“No,” she answered calmly, still pale to the lips; 
“they only concern myself. I admit freely that there 
is a secret connected with my past — a secret which I 
shall strive to preserve, because its revelation would, 
I know, cause you, my beloved, much worry and 
unnecessary pain. I therefore prefer to hide this 
truth and fight my enemies alone.” 

“Is not this secret one that, before marrying you, I 
ought to know ?” he demanded earnestly. 

“It cannot concern you in any way,” she declared. 
“True, it has reference to my past life, but surely you 
don't believe me to be an adventuress — do you ?” 

“Of course not, piccina,” he answered, laughing, as 
he again placed his arm tenderly around her waist. 
“You an adventuress ! What made you suggest 
such a thing?” 

“I must be an enigma to you,” she said. “But, 
believe me, I would tell you everything if I could see 
that you could be benifited in the least. The story is 
a long and wretched one; and when I reflect upon 
the closed chapter of my life's history, I am always 
dolorous and unhappy. The more so because I'm 
unable to confide in you, the man I love.” 

“Will you explain all to me some day?” he asked 
in his ungrammatical Italian. 

“Yes, everything. At present, if I were to tell 
you, the result would only be disastrous to myself, 
and in all probability wreck your happiness. Silence 
is best now — far the best.” 


102 


Silence Is Best 


His face wore a heavy expression of disappointment 
and dissatisfaction. Truth to tell, the whole matter 
was so utterly inexplicable that he entertained serious 
misgivings. She noticed this, and raising her face, 
now no longer haggard, but pale and sweet-looking, 
she added — 

“Cannot you trust me further, Nino?” 

“Trust you, darling!” he cried. “Why, of course 
I can. Only all this secrecy worries me.” 

“Ah no ! Don't think of it any more,” she urged. 
“To-night I will leave with you for Paris. I have 
a friend there to whom I can go. Afterwards, in 
London, we will marry — if you still desire that we 
should.” 

The last words were uttered in a low, tremulous, 
hesitating tone. 

“Still desire!” he echoed. “I still love you as 
fondly — ah ! even more fervently than before. If you 
would only confide in me, I should be entirely happy.” 

“At present that is impossible,” she declared. 
“Some day, before long, I hope to be in a position to 
tell you everything.” 

“And you are ready to go to London ?” he observed. 
“Plalf an hour ago you said you did not wish to go to 
England !” 

“True, because I feared to go. Now I no longer 
fear. I am ready, even eager to accompany you, if 
you still wish.” 

“Then we will go straight through to Paris; and 
when I have concluded my business, which will 
occupy perhaps a couple of days, we’ll go on to 
London.” 

“Benissimo !” she answered, raising her full, red lips 
to his. “I so want to see your great and wonderful 
London, caro. I’ve read so much about it, and seen 
lots of pictures and photographs of its crowded streets 
and its motley people. It must be gigantic. I shall 
be so happy and content with you as my guide.” 

“It will be all very strange to you. dearest — the 


Silence Is Best 


103 


people, the language, the ways of life/’ he said, the 
heavy look of despondency giving place to a joyous 
smile. “All will seem curious to you after your own 
beautiful Tuscany, with its mountains, its rich and 
picturesque country, and its cities of ancient palaces. 
But in London there is nothing half so beautiful as at 
Duomo, at Florence ; in England no scenery so pic- 
turesque as the wild valleys up beyond the Bagni di 
Lucca, the country you know so well.” 

“To see London,” she said, “has ever been the 
dream of my life.” 

“Ah ! I’m afraid you’ll be sadly disappointed, 
piccina,” he said, again smiling. “After your bright, 
beautiful Italy, our busy, bustling, smoke-blackened 
city will seem terribly dull, monotonous, and dreary. 
The sky is seldom blue, and the atmosphere never 
clear and bright like this. In your Tuscany every- 
thing is artistic — the country, the towns, the people; 
but in England — well, you will see for yourself.” 

“But there are lots of amusements in London,” she 
said, “and life there is always gay.” 

“For the rich, London offers the greatest and most 
diverse attractions of any place in the world ; but for 
the poor, herded together in millions as they are, it 
is absolutely the worst. In Italy you have much 
poverty and distress, but the lot of the poor man is 
far easier here than in toiling, turbulent, over-crowded 
London.” 

“One never appreciates the town in which onq 
lives, be it ever so beautiful,” she laughed. 

“Well, be patient, and you shall see what London 
is like,” he said. “But it is already two o’clock. 
You must lunch, and afterwards pack your trunks. 
Our train leaves at half-past nine to-night, and at 
Pisa we shall join the night mail to the frontier. I’ll 
wire to the sleeping-car office in Rome, and secure our 
berths in the through car for Paris.” 

“Ah ! Nino,” she exclaimed happily, “I am content, 
very content to leave Italy with you. An hour ago I 


T04 


Silence Is Best 


had reasons for remaining; but now it is, of course, 
impossible ; and, strangely enough, I have no further 
object in staying here.” 

“And you will not regret leaving ?” 

“Of course not,” she said, flinging herself into his 
ready arms and shedding tears of joy. “I fear nothing 
now, because, I know that you love me, Nino,” she 
sobbed. “I know you will not believe anything that 
is alleged against me. You have asked me to marry 
you, and I am content — ah ! absolutely content to do 
so. But even now I do not hold you to your promise, 
because of my inability to divulge to you my secret. 
If you think me untrue or scheming, then let us part. 
If you believe I love you, then let us marry in England 
and be happy.” 

“I love you, Gemma,” he answered low and 
earnestly. “Let us go together to London, and let 
this be the last hour of our doubt and unhappiness,” 


CHAPTER XII 


A WORD WITH HIS EXCELLENCY. 

one morning, about ten days after Armytage had 
left Leghorn with Gemma, a rather curious consulta- 
tion took place at the Italian Embassy in Grosvenor 
Square between Count Castellani, the Ambassador to 
the Court of St. James's, and Inspector Elmes, of the 
Criminal Investigation Department. 

The Ambassador, a handsome, grey-haired man of 
sixty, with courtly manner as became the envoy of 
the most polite nation in the world, stroked his beard 
thoughtfully while he listened to the detective. He 
was sitting at his big writing-table in the small, well- 
furnished room where he was in the habit of holding 
private conference with those with whom the Chief 
Secretary of Embassy had no power to deal. Elmes, 
smart, well-shaven, and ruddy, sat in a large easy-chair 
close by, and slowly explained the reason of his visit. 

“I remember the case quite well/' His Excellency 
exclaimed when the detective paused. “Some papers 
regarding it were placed before me, but I left my 
Secretary to deal with them. The girl, if I remember 
aright, arrived in London from Livorno accompanied 
by an unknown Englishman, and was found dead in 
a cab at Piccadilly Circus — mysteriously murdered, 
according to the medical evidence. ,, 

“The jury returned an open verdict, but without 

105 


106 A Word with His Excellency 

doubt she was the victim of foul play/’ Elmes said 
decisively. 

“One moment,” the Ambassador interrupted, placing 
his hand upon an electric button upon the table. 

In answer to his summons the thin, dark-faced 
Neapolitan man-servant appeared, and by him the 
Ambassador sent a message to the Secretary, who in 
a few moments entered. 

He was younger by ten years than the Ambassador, 
foppishly dressed, as Italians are wont to be, but 
nevertheless pleasant-faced, with manners which were 
the essence of good breeding. 

“You remember the case of the girl — Vittorina, I 
think her name was — who was found dead in a cab 
outside the Criterion ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did we make any inquiries of the police in Livorno 
regarding her identity? This is an Inspector from 
Scotland Yard,” he explained. 

“Yes. Do you wish to see the reply?” 

“You might send it in to me at once,” the Ambas- 
sador said ; and the Secretary withdrew. 

“What you have told me is certainly extraordinary 
— most extraordinary,” exclaimed His Excellency, 
addressing Elmes. 

“All the inquiries I have made point to the one fact 
I have already suggested,” the detective said. “At 
Scotland Yard we received a request from your Excel- 
lency that we should carefully investigate the matter, 
and we are doing so to the very best of our ability.” 

“I’m sure you are. The police system of England 
is excellent, notwithstanding what some may say of 
its small defects. You have not the power of arrest 
which our Italian police have, but certainly, next to 
the Paris detective force, that of London is the most 
shrewd, the most intelligent, and the most successful 
in the detection of crime. I well recollect now signing 
a formal request to your Department to make search- 
ing investigation.” 


A Word with His Excellency 107 

At that moment a clerk entered, bearing a file of 
papers, which he placed before His Excellency. 

“Now,” exclaimed the latter, “let us see what reply 
we received from the police of Livorno;” and he 
slowly turned over letter after letter. The correspond- 
ence had evidently been considerable. Its magnitude 
surprised the detective. 

Suddenly the Count paused, and his brows con- 
tracted as he read one of the official letters. He glanced 
at the signature, and saw it was that of the Marquis 
Montelupo, Minister of Foreign Affairs at Rome. 
Twice he read it through. It was a long despatch, 
closely written, and as the Ambassador reread it his 
brow darkened. 

Again he touched the electric bell, and a second 
time summoned the Secretary of Embassy. 

When the latter appeared, His Excellency beckoned 
him into an inner room, and, taking the file of papers 
with him, left the Inspector alone with the Times. 

After the lapse of some ten minutes both men 
returned. 

“But what I desire to know, and that clearly, is, 
why this despatch was never handed to me,” His 
Excellency was saying angrily as they emerged. 

“You were away at Scarborough, therefore I at- 
tended to it myself,” the Secretary answered. 

“Did you not appreciate its extreme importance?” 
His Excellency cried impetuously. “Surely, in the 
interests of our diplomacy, this matter should have 
been placed immediately before me! This despatch, 
a private one from the Minister, has apparently been 
lying about the Embassy for the servants or any 
chance caller to read. The thing’s disgraceful ! Sup- 
pose for one moment the contents of this despatch, 
have leaked out ! What would be the result?” 

The Secretary made no reply, but shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“Such gross carelessness on the part of any one con- 

nected with this Embassy amounts almost to treason/’ 


io8 A Word with His Excellency 

the Ambassador continued, livid with rage and 
indignation. “We are here to do our utmost to 
preserve the honour and prestige of our nation. Is 
not our national motto, Tor the country and the 
king’? Yet, because I was absent a week, a matter of 
the most vital importance is calmly shelved in this 
manner ! Moreover, it was sent by special messenger 
from Rome; yet it has been allowed to lie about for 
anybody to copy!’’ 

“Pardon me, your Excellency,” exclaimed the 
Secretary. “The file has been kept in the private 
safe until this moment, and the key has never left my 
pocket.” 

“Then why did you send it in here by a clerk, and 
not bring it yourself?” was His Excellency's wither- 
ing retort. 

“It was impossible for me to return at that moment,” 
the Secretary explained. “I was dictating an im- 
portant letter to catch the post.” 

“I see from these papers that we wrote direct to the 
Questore at Livorno, and his reply came by special 
messenger, under cover from the Foreign Minister. 
Surely that in itself was sufficient to convince you 
of its extreme importance! Your previous experi- 
ences in Vienna and Berlin ought to have shown 
you that the Minister does not send despatches 
by special messenger unless he fears the cabinet 
noir” 

“I wrote formally to the Questore at Livorno, 
according to your instructions, and certainly received j 
from the Ministry at Rome the reply attached. I \ 
must confess, however, that it did not strike me as 
extraordinary until this moment. Now that I read it 
in the light of recent occurrences, I see how secret is 
its nature. It is impossible, however, that any one 
besides myself has read it.” 

“Let us hope not,” His Excellency snapped as he 
reseated himself. “It was most injudicious, to say 
the least;” and then with politeness he bowed to the 


r A Word with His Excellency 109 

Secretary as a sign that he had concluded his expres- 
sions of displeasure. 

“It is most fortunate that you called/’ the Am- 
bassador observed, turning to Elmes when the Secre- 
tary had left. “If you had not, a most important 
matter would have escaped my attention. As it is, I 
fear I shall be too late in intervening, owing to the 
gross negligence which has been displayed. After the 
inquest had been held upon the body of the unfor- 
tunate girl, we wrote, it appears, to the police at Li- 
vorno to endeavour to discover who she was and he 
slowly turned over the papers one by one until he came 
to a formidable document headed, “Questura di 
Livorno,” which he glanced through. 

“The police, it seems, have no knowledge of any 
person missing/’ he continued slowly and deliberately, 
when he had read through the report. “The name 
Vittorina is, of course, as common in Tuscany as 
Mary is in England. The photograph taken by your 
Department after death has been seen by the whole of 
the detectives in Livorno, but no one has identified 
it. If we had had the surname, we might possibly have 
traced her by means of the register, which is carefully 
kept in every Italian town ; but as it is, the Questore 
expresses regret that he is unable to furnish us with 
more than one item of information.” 

“What is that?” asked Elmes, eagerly. 

“It is stated that by the last train from Livorno, one 
night in August, two persons, a man and a woman, 
inquired for tickets for London. They were informed 
that tickets could only be issued as far as Milan or 
Modane. The man was English, and the woman 
Italian. The detective on duty at the station took 
careful observation of them, as persons who ask for 
through tickets for London are rare. The description 
of the woman tallies exactly with that of the unknown 
Vittorina, and that of the man with the fellow who so 
cleverly escaped through the Criterion bar.” 

f ‘Wc already knew that they came from Leghorn,” 


no 


A Word with His Excellency 


the Inspector observed disappointedly ; but the 
Ambassador took no notice of his words. He was re- 
reading for the third time the secret instructions 
contained in the despatch from the Minister at Rome, 
and stroking his pointed grey beard, a habit of his 
when unusually puzzled. 

“You, of course, still have the original of that 
curiously worded letter found in the dead girl’s 
dressing-bag, and signed ‘Egisto’ ?” Count Castellani 
exclaimed presently, without taking his keen eyes off 
the despatch before him. 

“Yes, your Excellency,” Elmes answered. “I have 
it in my pocket.” 

“I should like to see it, if you’ll allow me,” he said 
in a cold, dignified voice. 

The detective took out a well-worn leather wallet 
containing many notes of cases on which he was or 
had been engaged, and handed to the Ambassador the 
strange note which had so puzzled the police and the 
readers of newspapers. 

His Excellency assumed his gold-rimmed pince-nez, 
and carefully scrutinized the note. 

“It is strangely worded — very strangely,” he said. 
“Have you formed any opinion regarding the mention 
of Bonciani’s Restaurant in Regent Street? What 
kind of place is it? I’ve never heard of it.” 

“The Bonciani is a small restaurant halfway up 
Regent Street, frequented by better-class Italians ; but 
what the veiled references to appointments on Mon- 
days can mean, I’ve at present utterly failed to dis- 
cover.” 

“This Egisto, whoever he is, writes from Lucca, I 
see,” His Excellency remarked. “Now, Lucca is only 
half an hour from Pisa, and if the man wished to say 
adieu to her, he might have taken half an hour’ll 
journey and seen her off in the train for the frontier. 
Have you made any inquiries regarding this strange 
communication ?” 

“A letter has been written to the British Consul 


A Word with His Excellency 


hi 


at Leghorn, in whose district Lucca is, sending 
him a copy of the letter, together with the evi- 
dence, and asking him to communicate with the 
authorities.” 

“Has that letter been sent?” the Ambassador in- 
quired quickly. 

“No. I only made application for it to be sent 
when I was round at the Chief Office this morn- 
ing.” 

“Then stop it,” His Excellency said. “In this 
matter Consular inquiries are not required, and may 
have the effect of thwarting the success of the police. 
If you will leave this letter in my hands, I shall be 
pleased to make inquiries through the Ministry, and 
at once acquaint you with the result.” 

“That will be extremely kind of you, your Excel- 
lency,” the Inspector said; for he at once saw that 
the Ambassador had far greater chance of discovering 
some clue than he had. A request from the Italian 
representative in London would, he knew, set the 
police office in a flutter, and all their wits would be 
directed towards discovering the identity of the writer 
of the extraordinary missive. 

“This piece of evidence will be quite safe in my 
hands, of course,” added the Count. “If I am com- 
pelled to send it to Italy, in order that the hand- 
writing should be identified, I shall make it a con- 
dition that it shall be returned immediately. Do you 
speak Italian?” 

“A little, your Excellency,” he answered. “Eve 
been in Italy once or twice on extradition cases.” 

“Then you can read this letter, I suppose?” the 
courtly diplomat asked, eying him keenly. 

“Yes. I made the translation for the Coroner,” 
answered Elmes, with a smile. 

“Well, it does you credit. Very few of our police, 
unfortunately, know English. In your inquiries in 
this case, what have you discovered ?” the Ambassador 
asked. “You may be perfectly frank with me, because 


1 12 


A Word with His Excellency 


the woman was an Italian subject, and I am prepared 
to assist you in every way possible." 

“Thanks/' the detective said. “Already I've made 
— and am still making — very careful investigations. 
The one fact, however, which I have really established, 
is the identity of the mysterious Major — who was 
waiting on the platform of Charing Cross Station, 
who was introduced to the girl, who afterwards spoke 
to her English companion in the Criterion, and whose 
photograph, fortunately enough, was found in the dead 
girl's dressing-bag." 

“The Major?" repeated His Excellency, as if reflect- 
ing. “Ah! yes, of course; I recollect. Well, who 
is that interesting person ?" he asked. 

“The photograph has been identified by at least a 
dozen persons as that of a Major Gordon Maitland, 
who lives in the Albany, and who is a member of the 
Junior United Service Club." 

“Maitland !" echoed the Ambassador, starting at 
the mention of the name. “He’s rather well known, 
isn’t he? I fancy I’ve met him somewhere or 
other." 

“He’s very well known," answered Elmes. “It is 
strange, however, that he left London a few days after 
the occurrence, and has not left his address either at 
his chambers or his club." 

“That is certainly curious," the Ambassador agreed. 
“It may, however, be only accidental that he left after 
the tragic affair." 

“I have made judicious inquiries in quarters where 
he is best known, but absolutely nothing is discover- 
able regarding his whereabouts, although I have three 
officers engaged on the case." 

“You have found out nothing regarding his friend, 
the mysterious Englishman, I suppose ?’’ 

“Absolutely nothing. All trace of him has van- 
ished as completely as if the earth had swallowed 
him up." 

“He may have been an American, and by this time 


A Word with His Excellency 113 

is in New York, or even San Francisco/' the Count 
hazarded. 

“True, he might have been. Only Major Maitland 
can tell us that. We are certain to find him sooner 
or later." 

“I sincerely hope you will,” the Ambassador said. 
“I am here to guard the interests of all Italian 
subjects, and if the life of one is taken, it is my duty 
to press upon your Department the urgent necessity 
of discovering and punishing the assassin. If, how- 
ever, I can be of any service to you in this matter, 
or can advise you, do not hesitate to call on nie. You 
can always see me privately if you send in your 
card;" and rising, as a sign the interview was at an 
end, His Excellency bowed, and wished the detective 
“good morning." 

The instant Inspector Elmes had closed the door 
the Ambassador took up the letter found in the 
dead girl’s bag, together with the file of papers 
lying before him. Carrying them swiftly to the 
window, he readjusted his gold-rimmed pince-nez, 
and hurriedly turned over folio after folio, until he 
came to the secret despatch with the sprawly signature 
of the Italian Minister of Foreign Affairs. Then, 
placing the letter beside the despatch, he closely 
compared the signature with the handwriting of the 
letter. 

His face grew pale, his grey brows contracted, and 
he bit his lip. 

The Ts," “p’s," and “t’s" in the strange missive 
were exactly identical with those in the signature to 
the closely written despatch which had been penned 
by the private secretary. 

With trembling hand he held the soiled scrap of 
paper to the light. 

“The watermark slows this to be official paper," 
he muttered aloud. “There is certainly some deep, 
extraordinary mystery here — a mystery which must 
be fathomed." 


1 14 A Word with His Excellency 

Again he glanced at the long formal despatch. 
Then the Ambassador added, in a low, subdued, 
almost frightened tone — 

"What if it is proved that the Marquis Montelupo 
and ‘Egisto’ are one and the same 1” 


CHAPTER XIII 


A DISCOVERY IN EBURY STREET. 

The soft, musical Tuscan tongue, the language which 
Gemma spoke always with her lover, is full of quaint 
sayings and wise proverbs. The assertion that 
“L’amore della donna e come il vino di Champagni; 
se non si beve subito, ricade in fondo al calice” is a 
daily maxim of those light-hearted, happy, indolent 
dwellers north and south of Arno's Valley, from grey 
old Lucca, with her crumbling city gates and pon- 
derous walls, across the mountains and plains to where 
the high towers of Sienna stand out clear-cut like 
porcelain against the fiery blaze of sunset. Nearly 
every language has an almost similar proverb — a 
proverb which is true indeed, but, like many another 
equally wise, is little heeded. 

When Armytage and Gemma had arrived in Lon- 
don, he had not been a little surprised at the address 
where she stated some friends of hers resided. While 
still in the train, before she reached London, she took 
from her purse a soiled and carefully treasured piece 
of paper, whereon was written, “76, Bridge Avenue, 
Hammersmith and to this house they drove, after 
depositing their heavy baggage in the cloak-room. 
They found it a poor, wretched thoroughfare off King 
Street, and in the wet evening it looked grey, depress- 
ing, and unutterably miserable after the brightness 
of Italy. Suddenly the cab pulled up before the 

”5 


ii6 A Discovery in Ebury Street 

house indicated — a small two-storied one — but it was 
evident that the person they sought no longer lived 
there, for a board was up announcing that the house 
was to let. Armytage, after knocking at the door 
and obtaining no response, rapped at the neighbour- 
ing house, and inquired whether they were aware of 
the address of Mr. Nenci, who had left. From the 
good woman who answered his inquiries he obtained 
the interesting fact that, owing to non-payment of 
the weekly rent, the landlord had a month ago seized 
the goods, and the foreigner, who had resided there 
some six months, had disappeared, and, being deeply 
in debt among the neighbouring small shops, had 
conveniently forgotten to leave his address. 

“Was Mr. Nenci married ?” asked Charlie Army- 
tage, determined to obtain all the information he 
could. 

“Yes, sir/* the woman answered. “His wife was 
a black-faced, scowling Italian, who each time she 
passed me looked as though she’d like to stick a knife 
into me. And all because I one day complained of 
’em throwing a lot of rubbish over into my gardin. 
My husban’, ’e says ’e’d go in and talk to ’em, but I 
persuaded him not to. Them foreigners don’t have 
any manners. And you should just have seen the 
state they left the ’ouse in! Somethin’ awful, the 
lan’lord says.” 

“Then you haven’t the slightest idea where they’ve 
gone ?” 

“No, sir. Back to their own country, I hope, for 
London’s better off without such rubbish;” and she 
indignantly shut the door, almost before he could 
wish her good evening. 

Returning to the cab, he told her of the departure 
of her friends, and suggested that for the present she 
should stay at the Hotel Victoria, in Northumberland 
Avenue, while he took up his bachelor quarters in 
Ebury Street. Therefore they drove back again to 
Charing Cross ; and having seen her comfortably 


A Discovery in Ebury Street i 17 

installed in the hotel, he drove to his own rooms. 
It was a whim of his to keep on his bachelor chambers 
while he travelled — first, because he had gone to 
considerable expense in furnishing and decorating 
them; and, secondly, because he could not find it in 
his heart to turn away his housekeeper, an old and 
trusted servant of the family. Although he spent 
scarcely a month a year there, he had in his chambers 
a pied-a-terre in London, and he knew that at any 
moment he would find things clean, well-ordered, and 
ready for his reception, even if he did not telegraph 
his intended arrival. 

On this occasion, however, he had written from 
Paris, and on entering his cosy little flat, with its 
curiously decorated rooms with their Moorish lounges 
and hangings, he found a bright fire, a comfortable 
chair ready placed for him, his spirit-stand and a 
syphon of soda ready to hand, and Mrs. Wright, his 
housekeeper, welcoming him back cordially, and 
expressing the hope that his journey had been a 
pleasant one. 

Having deposited his bag, he washed, dressed, 
swallowed a whisky-and-soda, and drove back to the 
Victoria, where he dined with his well-beloved. 
Afterwards he wished her a fond “good night” in 
the brightly lit hall, where the eternal bustle of the 
great hotel was concentrated, and having seen her 
into the lift, returned again to his own chambers. 

At eleven o’clock next morning, according to his 
promise, he came to the hotel, and they drove out 
in a hansom to 'see some of the principal streets of 
London. She had chosen a dress of dark grey, which 
fitted her perfectly, and beneath her large black hat 
her fair face and blue eyes looked the perfect in- 
carnation of innocence and ingenuousness. As he 
had anticipated, all was strange to her, and in every- 
thing she became deeply interested. To her, London 
was a revelation after the quiet idleness of Tuscany. 
They drove along the busy Strand, past the Law 


1 1 8 A Discovery in Ebury Street 

Courts, down Fleet Street with its crowd of lounging 
printers, and up Ludgate Hill. At St. Paul’s they 
alighted and entered the Cathedral. Its exterior was 
admired, but at its bare interior she was disappointed. 
She had expected the Duomo of London to be re- 
splendent in gilt and silver altars, with holy pictures, 
but instead found a great, gaunt building, grey, silent, 
and depressing. 

Armytage noticed the blank look upon her beautiful 
countenance, and asked her her opinion. 

“It is fine, very fine,” she answered in her pure 
Tuscan. “But how bare it is !” 

“This is not a Catholic country, like yours,” he 
explained. “Here we don’t believe in gaudy altars, 
or pictures of the Vergine Annunziata.” 

“Are all your churches the same, Nino?” she in- 
quired. “Are there no altars?” 

“Only the central one, and that is never golden, as 
in Italy.” 

He pointed out to her tombs of great men about 
whom she had read long ago in her schooldays at 
the Convent of San Paolo della Croce, in Florence, 
and in them she was much interested. But after- 
wards, when they drove round St. Paul’s churchyard 
into Cheapside, where the traffic was congested and 
progress was slow, she looked upon the mighty, 
crowded city with eyes wide open in wonder as a 
child’s. At every point she indicated something 
which she had never before seen, and Bennett’s clock 
striking midday caused her as much delight as if 
she had been a girl of twelve. Hers was an extra- 
ordinary temperament. As he sat beside her, listening 
to her original remarks anent things which to his 
world-weary eyes were so familiar as to be unnotice- 
able, he saw how genuinely ingenuous she was, how 
utterly unlike the callous adventuress which once, in 
Livorno, he feared her to be. 

To show and explain to her all the objects of 
interest they passed was to him an intense pleasure. 


A Discovery in Ebury Street 


ii Q 


She saw the Mansion House, was impressed by the 
black gloominess of the Bank of England — an institu- 
tion revered by every foreigner of either sex — and 
admired the fine facade of the Exchange. 

“How strange!” she exclaimed, while in turning 
back towards Queen Victoria Street the cab became 
again blocked by the traffic. “Every one here seems 
in such a hurry. Look at the men’s hats ! They 
apparently have no time to put them on properly.” 

He glanced at the stream of bustling humanity and 
smiled. She had pointed out to him what he had 
never before noticed, namely, that nearly every one 
of those thousands of preoccupied business men wore 
his hat crushed on hurriedly at an angle. 

They returned by way of Cannon Street, where he 
pointed out the great warehouses whence emanated 
those objects so dear to the feminine heart — hats and 
dresses; past the Post Office, with its lines of red 
mail-carts ready to start for the various termini; 
along Newgate Street with its grim prison, across 
the Holborn Viaduct, and thence along Oxford and 
Regent Streets to the hotel. 

“How busy and self-absorbed every one seems!” 
she again remarked. “How gigantic this city seems! 
Its streets bewilder me.” 

“Ah, piccina mia,” he answered, “you’ve only seen 
a very tiny portion of London. There are more 
people in a single parish here than in the whole of 
Florence.” 

“And they all talk English, while I don't understand 
a word!” she said, pouting prettily. “I do so wish 
I could speak English.” 

“You will learn very soon,” he answered her. “In 
a couple of months or so you’ll be able to go out alone 
and make yourself understood.” 

“Ah no!” she declared with a slight sigh. “Your 
English is so difficult — oh, so very difficult! — that I 
{shall never, never be able to speak it.” 

“Wait and see,” he urged. “When we are married, 


120 


A Discovery in Ebury Street 


I shall speak English to you always, and then you’ll 
be compelled to learn,” he laughed. 

“But, Nino,” she said, her eyes still fixed upon the 
crowd of persons passing and repassing, “why are all 
these people in such a dreadful hurry ? Surely there’s 
no reason for it ?” 

“It is business, dearest,” he answered. “Here, in 
London, men are bent on money-making. Nine- 
tenths of these men you see are struggling fiercely 
to live, notwithstanding the creases in their trousers, 
and the glossiness of their silk hats ; the other tenth 
are still discontented, although good fortune has 
placed them beyond the necessity of earning their 
living. In London, no man is contented with his lot, 
even if he’s a millionaire; whereas in your country, 
if a man has a paltry ten thousand lire a year, he 
considers himself very lucky, takes life easily, and 
enjoys himself.” 

“Ah,” she said, just as the cab pulled up before 
the hotel entrance, where half a dozen Americans, 
men and women, lounging in wicker chairs, began 
to comment upon her extreme beauty, “in London 
every one is so rich.” 

“No, not every one,” he answered, laughing. “Very 
soon your views of London will become modified;” 
and he sprang out, while the grey-haired porter, re- 
splendent in gilt livery, assisted her to alight. 

An incident had, however, occurred during the 
drive which had passed unnoticed by both Gemma 
and her companion. While they were crossing 
Trafalgar Square, a man standing upon the kerb 
glanced up at her in quick surprise, and, by the 
expression on his face, it was evident that he recog- 
nized her. 

For a few moments his eyes followed the vehicle, 
and seeing it enter Northumberland Avenue, he hur- 
ried swiftly across the Square, and halted at a respect- 
able distance, watching her ascend the hotel steps 
with Armytage. 


A Discovery in Ebury Street 12 i 

Then, with a muttered imprecation, the man turned 
on his heel and strode quickly away towards St. 
Martin s Lane. 

When, a quarter of an hour later, Armytage was 
seated with her at luncheon in the great table d'hote 
room, with its heavy gilding, its flowers and orchestral 
music, she, unconscious of the sensation her beauty 
was causing among those in her vicinity, expressed 
fear of London. It was too enormous, too feverish, 
too excited for her ever to venture out alone, she 
declared. But he laughed merrily at her misgivings, 
and assured her that very soon she would be quite at 
home among her new surroundings. 

“Would you think very ill of me, piccina, if I left 
you alone all day to-morrow ?” he asked presently, 
not without considerable hesitation. 

“Why?” she inquired, with a quick look of sus- 
picion. 

“No, no,” he smiled, not failing to notice the 
expression on her face. “I’m not going to call on 
any ladies, piccina. The fact is, Eve had a pressing 
invitation for a day’s shooting from an uncle in the 
country, and it is rather necessary, from a financial 
point of view, that I should keep in with the old boy. 
You understand?” 

But Gemma did not understand, and he was com- 
pelled to make further explanations ere she consented 
to his absence. 

“I’ll go down by the early train,” he said, “and I’ll 
be back again here by nine to dine with you.” Then, 
turning to the waiter standing behind his chair, he 
inquired whether he spoke Italian. 

“I am Italian, signore,” the man answered. 

“Then, if the signorina is in any difficulty to- 
morrow, you will assist her?” 

“Certainly, signore; my number is 42,” the man 
said, whisking off the empty plates and rearranging 
the knives. 

“I wouldn’t go, only it is imperative for gne 


122 


A Discovery in Ebury Street 


or two reasons/’ he explained to her. “In the 
morning you can take a cab, and the waiter will 
tell the driver that you want to go for an hour 
or so in the West — remember, the West End — not 
the East End. Then you will return to lunch, and 
have a rest in the afternoon. You know well that Ell 
hasten back to you, dearest, at the earliest possible 
moment.” 

“Yes,” she said, “go, by all means. You’ve often 
told me you like a day’s shooting, and I certainly do 
not begrudge my poor Nino any little pleasure.” 

“But I’m afraid you’ll be so dull, piccina.” 

“Oh no. I find so much in the streets to interest 
me,” she declared. “If I’m at all melancholy I shall 
simply go out in a cab.” 

“Then you are sure you don’t object to being left 
alone?” 

“Not in the least,” she laughed, as with that chic 
which was so charming she raised her wine-glass to 
her pretty lips. 

When they had finished luncheon she went to her 
room, while he smoked a cigarette; then, when she 
reappeared, he drove her to his own chambers in 
Ebury Street. 

“My place is a bit gloomy, I’m afraid,” he explained 
on the way. “But we can chat there without inter- 
ruption. In the hotel it is impossible.” 

“No place is gloomy with my Nino,” she answered. 

His arm stole around her slim waist, and he pressed 
her to him more closely. 

“And you must not mind my servant,” he ex- 
claimed. “She’s been in our family for twenty 
years, and will naturally regard you with considerable 
suspicion, especially as you are a foreigner, and she 
can’t speak to you.” 

“Very well,” she laughed. “I quite understand. 
Women-servants never like the advent of a wife.” 

Presently they alighted, and he opened the door of 
the flat with his latchkey. 


A Discovery in Ebury Street 123 

“Welcome to my quarters, piccina,” he exclaimed 
as she entered the tiny, dimly lit hall, and glanced 
round admiringly. 

“How pretty !” she exclaimed. “Why, it is all 
Moorish !” looking up at the silk-embroidered texts 
from the Koran with which the walls were draped. 

“Em glad you like it,” he said happily ; and together 
they passed on into his sitting-room, a spacious 
apartment, the windows of which were filled with 
wooden lattices, the walls draped with embroidered 
fabrics, the carpet the thickest and richest from an 
Eastern loom, the stools, lounges, and cosy-corners 
low and comfortable, and the ceiling hidden by a kind 
of dome-shaped canopy of yellow silk. The panelling 
was of cedar-wood, which diffused a pleasant odour 
combined with that of burning pastilles, and every- 
where the eye rested there was nothing inartistic or 
incongruous. It was entirely Eastern, even to the 
small alcove tiled in blue and white where a tiny 
fountain plashed musically among the moss and 
ferns. 

Slowly she gazed round in rapt admiration. 

“I delight in a Moorish room, and this is the pret- 
tiest and most complete I have ever seen,” she de- 
clared. “My Nino has excellent taste in everything.” 

“Even in the choice of a wife — eh?” he exclaimed, 
laughing, as he bent swiftly and kissed her ere she 
could draw away. 

She raised her laughing eyes to his, and shrugged 
her shoulders. 

“Don't you find the place gloomy?” he asked. “My 
friends generally go in for old oak furniture, or imita- 
tion Chippendale. I hate both.” 

“So do I,” she assured him. “When we are married, 
Nino, I should like to have a room just like this for 
myself — only I’d want a piano,” she added, with a 
smile. 

“A piano in a Moorish room !” he exclaimed. 
“Wouldn’t that be somewhat out of place? Long 


124 A Discovery in Ebury Street 

pipes and a darbouka or two, like these, would be 
more in keeping with Moorish ideas ;” and he indi- 
cated a couple of drums of earthenware covered with 
skin, to the monotonous music of which the Arab and 
Moorish women are in the habit of dancing. 

“But you have an English table here,” she ex- 
claimed, crossing to it, “and there are photographs on 
it. Arabs never tolerate portraits. It’s entirely 
against their creed.” 

“Yes,” he admitted ; “that's true. I've never thought 
of it before.” 

At that instant she bent quickly over one of the 
half-dozen photographs in fancy frames. 

Then, taking it in her hand, she advanced swiftly 
to the window, and examined it more closely in the 
light. 

“Who is this?” she demanded in a fierce, harsh 
voice. 

“A friend of mine,” he replied, stepping up to her 
and glancing over her shoulder at the portrait. “He's 
an army officer — Major Gordon Maitland.” 

“Maitland!” she cried, her face in an instant pale 
to the lips. “And he is a friend of yours, Nino — you 
know him ?” 

“Yes, he is a friend of mine,” Armytage replied, 
sorely puzzled at her sudden change of manner. “But 
why? Do you also know him?” 

She held her breath; her face had in that instant 
become drawn and haggard, her pointed chin sank 
upon her breast in an attitude of hopeless despair, 
her clear blue eyes were downcast; but no answer 
passed her trembling lips. 

This sudden, unexpected discovery that the Major 
was acquainted with the man she loved held her dumb 
in shame, terror, and dismay. It had crushed front 
her heart all hope of love, of life, of happiness, 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE DOCTOR’S STORY 

Doctor Malvano, in a stout shooting-suit of dark 
tweed, his gun over his shoulder, his golf-cap pulled 
over his eyes to shade them, was tramping jauntily 
along across the rich meadow-land, cigar in mouth, 
chatting merrily with his host, a company promoter 
of the most pronounced Broad Street type named 
Mabie, who had just taken Aldworth Court, in Berk- 
shire, on a long lease, and who, like many of his 
class, considered it the best of form to shoot. The 
ideal of most men who make money and spend it in 
London city is to have “a place in the country and 
in this case the “place” was a great, old, time- 
mellowed, red-brick mansion, inartistic as was archi- 
tecture in the early Georgian days, but nevertheless 
roomy, comfortable, and picturesque in its ivy mantle, 
and surrounded by its spacious park. 

The party with whom he was shooting was a 
decidedly mixed one. At a country house, Malvano 
was always a welcome guest on account of his good 
humour his easy temperament, and his happy knack 
of being able to entertain all and sundry. Ladies 
liked him because of his exquisite Italian courtesy, 
and perhaps also because he was a merry, careless 
bachelor; while among the men of a house-party, he 
was voted good company, and the excellence of his 
billiard-playing and shooting always excited envy and 

125 


126 


The Doctor’s Story 


admiration. In the hours between breakfast and 
luncheon, few birds had that day escaped his gun. 
To his credit he had placed a good many brace of 
partridges and pheasants, half a dozen snipe, a hare 
or two, and held the honours of the morning by 
bringing down the single woodcock which the beaters 
had sent up. 

They had lunched well at an old farmhouse on his 
host’s estate, a table being well spread in the great 
oak-beamed living-room, with its tiny windows and 
a fire on the wide hearth, and, in the enjoyment of an 
unusually good cigar, the Doctor felt disinclined to 
continue his feats of marksmanship. Indeed, he 
would have much preferred the single hour’s rest in 
an easy-chair, to which he had always been accus- 
tomed in Italy, than to be compelled to tramp along 
those high hedgerows. Yet he was a guest, and could 
make no complaint. The shooting was certainly above 
the average for a City man, who handled his gun as if 
afraid of it, and who seldom shot until the bird was 
out of range. To Malvano, who had hunted big game 
on the banks of the Zambezi, and who was well known 
as a chamois-hunter in the Tyrol, sport with such an 
amateur party was a trifle tame. Still he was one of 
those men who could adapt himself to any circum- 
stance, and when the guest of a man who was genial, 
and not egotistical, he could maintain his usual high 
spirits, even though his inmost thoughts were far 
from his surroundings. 

Malvano possessed a very curious personality. Keen- 
eyed and far-sighted, nothing escaped him. He had 
a deep, profound knowledge of human nature, and 
could gauge a man accurately at a glance. His merry, 
careless manner, thoughtless, humorous, and given to 
laughing immoderately, caused those about him to 
consider him rather too frivolous for one of his 
profession, and too much given to pleasure and en- 
joyment. The popular mind demands the doctor to be 
a person who, grave-faced and care-lined, should 


The Doctor's Story 


127 


study the Lancet weekly, and carefully note every new- 
fangled idea therein propounded; should be able to 
diagnose any disease by looking into a patient's mouth ; 
and who should take no pleasure outside that morbid 
one derived from watching the growth or decline of 
the maladies in persons he attended. Malvano, how- 
ever, was not of that type. Without doubt, he was 
an exceedingly clever doctor, well acquainted with all 
the most recent Continental treatments, and whose ex- 
perience had been a long and varied one. He could 
chatter upon abstruse pathological subjects as easily as 
he could relate a story in the smoking-room, and could 
dance attendance upon the ladies, and amuse them by 
his light, brilliant chatter with that graceful manner 
which is born in every Italian, be he peasant or prince. 
Within twenty miles or so of Lyddington, no house- 
party was complete without the jovial Doctor, who de- 
lighted the younger men with his marvellous collection 
of humorous tales, and whom even the elder and 
grumpy admired on account of his perfect play at 
whist. Legend had it that the Doctor could repeat 
Cavendish from cover to cover. At any rate, his 
play was marvellously correct, and upon any point 
in dispute his opinion was always considered unim- 
peachable. 

But Fillipo Malvano was not in the best spirits this 
autumn afternoon, tramping across the meadows from 
Manstone Farm, at the Pangbourne and Hampstead 
Norris cross-roads, towards Clack’s Copse, where good 
sport had been promised by the keeper. He was care- 
ful enough not to betray to his host the fact that he was 
bored, but as he strode along, his heavy boots clogged 
with mud, he was thinking deeply of a curious incident 
that had occurred half an hour before, while they had 
been lunching up at the farm. 

The remainder of the party, half a dozen guns, were 
on ahead, piloted by the keeper, the beaters were 
before them on either side of the tall hazel hedge, 


128 


The Doctor's Story 


but beyond one or two rabbits, the spot seemed utterly 
destitute of game. 

“What kind of sport have you this season up in Rut- 
land ?” the City merchant was asking with the air of 
wide experience which the Cockney sportsman is so 
fond of assuming. 

“Fair — very fair/' Malvano replied mechanically. 
“Just now I’m shooting somewhere or other two or 
three days each week, and everywhere pheasants seem 
plentiful.” 

His dark eyes were fixed upon the moving figures 
before him, and especially upon one— that of a lithe, 
athletic man in a suit of grey homespun, who walked 
upright notwithstanding the uneven nature of the 
ground, and who carried his gun with that apparent 
carelessness which showed him to be a practised 
sportsman. 

It was this man who was occupying all the Doctor’s 
attention. To his host he chattered on merrily, joking 
and laughing from time to time, but, truth to tell, he 
was sorely puzzled. While sitting around the far- 
mer’s table, Mabie, turning to him, had made some ob- 
servation regarding the autumn climate in Tuscany, 
whereupon the young man now striding on before him 
had looked up quickly, asking — 

“Do you know Tuscany?” 

“Quite well,” the Doctor had answered, explaining 
how for some years he had practised in Florence. 

“I know Florence well,” his fellow-guest had said. 
“While there, I made many friends.” Then, after a 
second’s hesitation, he gazed full into the Doctor’s face, 
and asked, “Do you happen to know any people named 
Fanetti there?” 

This unexpected inquiry had caused the Doctor to 
start; but he had been sufficiently self-possessed to 
repeat the name and calmly reply that he had never 
heard of it. He made some blind inquiry as to who 
and what the family were, and in which quarter they 
resided; and then, with that tactful ingenuity which 


The Doctor's Story 


129 


was one of his most remarkable characteristics, he 
turned the conversation into an entirely different chan- 
nel. 

This incident, however, caused the jovial, careless 
Malvano considerable anxiety ; for here, in the heart of 
rural England, across the homely board of the simple, 
broad-faced farmer, a direct question of the most extra- 
ordinary kind had been put to him. He did not fail to 
recollect the keen, earnest look upon the man's face as 
he uttered the name of Fanetti — a name he had cause 
to well remember — and when he recalled it, he became 
seized with fear that this man, his fellow-guest, knew 
the truth. Having for the past half-hour debated with- 
in himself what course was the best to pursue, he had 
at last decided upon acting with discretion, and en- 
deavouring to ascertain how far this stranger's knowl- 
edge extended. 

Turning to his host as they walked on side by side, 
he removed his cigar, and said, in his habitual tone ot 
carelessness — 

“I, unfortunately, didn't catch the name of the young 
man to whom you introduced me this morning — the 
one in the light suit yonder." 

“Oh, my nephew, you mean," Mabie answered. “A 
good fellow — very good fellow. His name's Armytage 
— Charles Armytage." 

“Armytage!" gasped the Doctor. In an instant he 
remembered his conversation with Lady Marshfield. 
She had said that she knew a certain Charles Army- 
tage. But Malvano betrayed no sign, and remained 
quite calm. “Yes," he continued; “he seems a very de- 
cent fellow. He's a good shot, too. Several times this 
morning I've " 

At that instant a partridge rose before them, and 
Malvano raised his gun swift as lightning, and brought 
it down almost before the others had noticed it. 

“Several times to-day I've admired his shooting," 
continued the Doctor, at the same time reloading. 

“He's only just back from the Continent," his host 


130 


The Doctor's Story 


explained, “and I asked him to run down from town 
to-day, thinking a little English sport would be pleas- 
ant after the idleness of a summer in Italy/’ 

“A summer in Italy!” Malvano exclaimed in sur- 
prise. “He was rather ill-advised to go there during 
the hot weather. Every one strives to get away during 
summer. Where has he been ?” 

“In Florence, and afterwards at Leghorn, I believe. 
He’s been away all this year.” 

“He has no profession?” 

“None,” Mabie answered. “His father died and left 
him comfortably off. For a couple of years he led 
a rather wild life in Brussells and Paris, sowed the 
usual wild oats and afterwards took to travelling. On 
the average, he’s in England about a couple of months 
in the year. He says he only comes home to buy 
his clothes, as he can’t find a decent tailor on the Con- 
tinent,” 

“I well understand that,” Malvano laughed. “When 
I lived in Florence I had all my things made in Lon- 
don. Italian tailors have no style, and can’t fit a nine- 
gallon barrel with a suit.” 

His host smiled. 

“Is he making a long stay at home this time ?” 

“I believe so. He told me this morning that he was 
tired of travelling, and had come back to remain.” 

Malvano smiled a trifle sarcastically. It was evident 
that his host did not know the true story of his 
nephew’s fascination, or he would have mentioned it, 
and perhaps sought the Doctor’s opinion. There- 
fore, after some further ingenious questions regarding 
his nephew’s past and his present address, he dropped 
the subject. 

An hour later he found himself alone with Army- 
tage. They had passed through Clack’s Copse, and, 
after some splendid sport, had gained the road 
which cuts through the wood from Stanford Dingley 
to Ashampstead, where they were waiting for the 


The Doctor's Story 131 

remainder of the party, who, from the repeated shots, 
were in the vicinity finding plenty of birds. 

“Your uncle tells me you know Italy well,” Malvano 
observed, after watching his companion pot a brace of 
pheasants that came sailing towards them. 

“I don’t know it well,” Armytage replied, looking 
the picture of good health and good humour as he 
stood astride of his well-worn breeches and gaiters, and 
his gun across his arms. “I’ve been in Tuscany once 
or twice, at Florence, Pisa, Viareggio, Lucca, Leghorn, 
and Monti Catini. I’m very fond of it. The country 
is lovely, the garden of Italy, and the people are ex- 
tremely interesting, and of such diverse types. No- 
where in the world, perhaps, is there such pride among 
the lower classes as in Tuscany.” 

“And nowhere in the world are the people more 
ready to charge the travelling Englishman excessively 
— if they can,” added Malvano, laughing. “I’m Italian 
born, you know, but I never hesitate to condemn the 
shortcomings of my fellow-countrymen. The honest 
Italian is the most devoted friend in the world ; the dis- 
honest one is the brother of the very devil himself. You 
asked me at lunch whether I knew any one named Fa- 
netti — was Fanetti the name? — in Florence,” said the 
Doctor, after a pause, watching the younger man’s face 
narrowly. “At the time I didn’t recollect. Since 
lunch I have remembered being called professionally 
to a family of that name on one occasion.” 

“You were?” cried Armytage, immediately in- 
terested. Fie felt that, perhaps, from this careless, 
easy-going doctor, he might obtain some clue which 
would lead him to the truth regarding Gemma’s 
past. 

Malvano recalled Lady Marshfield’s words, and with 
his keen dark eyes looked gravely into the face of the 
tall, broad-shouldered young Englishman. 

“Yes,” he said. “There was a mother and two 
daughters, if I remember aright, and they lived in a 
small flat in the Via Ricasoli, a few doors from the 


132 


The Doctor's Story 


Gerini Palace. I was summoned there in the night 
under somewhat mysterious circumstances, for I found, 
on arrival, that one of the daughters had a deep-incised 
wound in the neck, evidently inflicted with a knife. I 
made inquiry how it occurred, but received no satis- 
factory reply. One thing was evident, namely, that the 
wound could not have been self-inflicted. There had 
been an attempt to murder the girl.” 

“To murder her!” Armytage cried. 

“No doubt,” the Doctor answered. “The wound had 
narrowly proved fatal, therefore the girl was in too 
collapsed a condition to speak herself. I dressed the 
wound, and, advising them to call their own doctor, 
went away.” 

“Didn't you see the girl again ?” asked Armytage. 

“No. There was something exceedingly suspicious 
about the whole affair, and I had no desire to imperil 
my professional reputation by being party at hushing 
up an attempted murder. Besides, from what I heard 
later, I believe they were decidedly a family to 
avoid.” 

“To avoid! What do you mean?” the young man 
cried, dismayed. 

Malvano saw that the words were producing the ef- 
fect he desired, namely, to increase suspicion and mis- 
trust in his companion's heart, and therefore resolved to 
go even further. 

“The family of whom I speak held a very unen- 
viable reputation in Florence. Some mystery was 
connected with the father, who was said to be under- 
going a long term of imprisonment. They were alto- 
gether beyond the pale of society. But, of course,” he 
added carelessly, “they cannot be the same family as 
those of whom you speak. Where did you say your 
friends live?” 

“They no longer live in Florence,” he answered 
hoarsely, his brow darkened, and his eyes downcast in 
deep thought. All that he learnt regarding Gemma 
seemed to be to her detriment. None had ever spoken 


The Doctor's Story 


133 


generously of her. It was, alas ! true, as she had told 
him, she had many enemies who sought her disgrace 
and ruin. Then, after a pause, he asked, “Do you 
know the names of the girls ?" 

“Only that of the one I attended," Malvano anwered, 
his searching eyes on the face of young Armytage. 
“Her name was Gemma." 

“Gemma!" he gasped. His trembling lips moved, 
but the words he uttered were lost in the two rapid 
barrels which the Doctor discharged at a couple of 
pheasants at that instant passing over their heads. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE SHADOW. 

In an old and easy dressing-gown, Gemma was idling 
over her tea and toast in her room on the morning 
after her lover had been shooting down in Berkshire, 
when one of the precocious messenger-lads delivered a 
note to her. 

At first she believed it to be from Armytage, but, 
on opening it, found, scribbled in pencil on a piece of 
paper, the address. “73, St. James’s Street, second 
floor ;” while enclosed were a few words in Italian in- 
viting her to call at that address on the first opportu- 
nity she could do so secretly, without the knowledge of 
her lover. The note was from Tristram. 

With a cry of anger that he should have already dis- 
covered her presence in London, she cast the letter from 
her and stamped her tiny foot, crying, in her own 
tongue — 

“Diavolo! Then ill luck has followed me — even 
here!” 

For a long time she sat, stirring her tea thoughtfully, 
and gazing blankly at her rings. 

“No,” she murmured aloud in a harsh, broken 
voice; “I won’t see this man. Let him act as he 
thinks fit. He cannot wreck my happiness more 
completely than it is already. Major Maitland is 
a friend of the man I love. Is not that fact in itself 
sufficient to show me that happiness can never be 
134 


The Shadow 


135 


mine; that it is sheer madness to anticipate a calm, 
peaceful life with Charles Armytage as my husband? 
But Dio! Was it not always so?” she sighed, as hot 
tears rose in her clear blue eyes, and slowly coursed 
down her cheeks. ‘‘I have sinned; and this, alas! is 
my punishment.” 

Again she was silent. Her breast heaved and fell 
convulsively, and with hair disordered and unbound 
she presented an utterly forlorn appearance. Her 
small white hands were clenched, her lips tightly 
compressed, and in her eyes was an intense expression 
as if before her had arisen some scene so terrible 
that it froze her senses. 

At last the striking of the clock aroused her, and 
she slowly commenced to dress. She looked at her- 
self long and earnestly in the mirror, and saw how 
deathly pale she had become, and how red were her 
eyes. 

Presently, as she crossed the room, she noticed the 
letter, and, snatching it up, slipped the paper with 
the address into her purse, tearing up the note into 
tiny fragments. 

It was past eleven when she descended to the great 
hall, and there found her lover seated on one of the 
lounges, smoking and patiently awaiting her. 

They sat together in the hall for a few minutes, 
then took a cab and drove about the West End. 
Armytage did not fail to observe how Gemma's beauty 
and foreign chic were everywhere remarked. In the 
streets men stared at her admiringly, and women 
scanned her handsome dresses with envious eyes; 
while in the hotel there were many low whisperings 
of admiration. Yet he could not conceal from himself 
the fact that she was as mysterious as she was 
beautiful. 

That bright, sunny autumn morning they drove 
along Piccadilly and across the Park, where the brown 
leaves were fast falling and the smoke-blackened 
branches stood forth as harbingers of the coming 


136 


The Shadow 


winter; then along Bayswater Road, through Ken- 
sington Palace Gardens, and round Kensington, re- 
turning by way of the Gore and Knightsbridge. The 
Marble Arch, Kensington Palace, the Albert Memorial, 
and the Imperial Institute were among the objects 
which he pointed out to her, and in all she evinced 
a keen interest. But, after the great and ponderous 
palaces of Florence, she was much struck with the 
smallness and meanness of the houses of the wealthy. 
Park Lane and Grosvenor Square residences disap- 
pointed her, and she was compelled to admit that the 
Park itself, grey in the autumn mists, was not half so 
pretty as her own leafy Cascine, along the level, well- 
kept roads of which they had cycled together. 

While passing across Grosvenor Square, she had 
been suddenly seized with excitement, for her quick 
eyes caught sight of a red, white and green flag, 
hanging limp and motionless from a flagstaff upon 
one of the largest houses. 

“Look! There's our Italian flag! Why is it 
there?" she cried, thrilled at sight of her own 
national colours. 

“That's the Embassy," he replied. “I suppose 
to-day is some anniversary or other in Italy." 

“The Embassy!" she repeated, turning again to 
look at it. “Is that where Count Castellani lives ?" 

“Yes. He's your Ambassador. Do you know 
him ?" 

“I met him once in Florence. He was at a ball at 
the Strossi Palace." 

“Then you know Prince Strossi ?" he exclaimed. 

“Quite well," she answered. “The Strossis and my 
family have long been acquainted." 

Her prompt reply made it apparent to him that she 
had moved in the most exclusive set in Florence. 
She had never before mentioned that she was ac- 
quainted with people of note. But next instant he 
recollected the strange story which the Florentine 
doctor had told him on the previous afternoon. Had 


The Shadow 


137 


not Malvano declared that her family was an unde- 
sirable one to know? What, he wondered, was the 
reason of this curious denunciation? 

Again she fixed her eyes upon the Embassy, and 
seemed as though she were taking careful observation 
of its appearance and position. 

“Did you go much into society in Florence ?” he 
inquired presently. 

“Only when I was forced to,” she answered am- 
biguously. “I do not care for it.” 

“Then you will not fret even if, after our marriage, 
you know only a few people?” 

The word “marriage” caused her to start. It 
brought back to her the hideous truth that even now, 
after he had brought her to England, their union was 
impossible. 

“No,” she answered, glancing at him with eyes full 
of love and tenderness. “I should always be happy 
with you alone, Nino. I should want no other com- 
panion.” 

“You would soon grow dull, I fear,” he said, taking 
her hand in his. 

“No, never — never,” she declared. “You know 
well how I love you, Nino.” 

“And I adore you, darling,” he answered. Then, 
after looking at her in hesitation for a moment, he 
added, “But you speak as though you still fear that 
we shall not marry. Why is that?” He had not 
failed to notice her sudden change of manner when he 
had spoken of marriage. 

“I really don’t know,” she answered with a forced 
laugh. “I suppose it is but a foolish fancy, yet 
sometimes I think that this happiness is too complete 
to be lasting.” 

“What causes you to fear this ?” he asked earnestly. 

“When I reflect upon the unhappiness of the past,” 
she said with a sigh — “when I remember how bitter 
was my life, how utterly blank and hopeless was the 
world prior to our meeting, I cannot rid myself of the 


133 


The Shadow 


apprehension that my plans, like all my others, will 
be thwarted by the one great secret of my past; 
that all my castles are merely air-built; that your 
love for me, Nino, will soon wane, and we shall 
part.” 

“No, no, piccina,” he cried, placing his arm tenderly 
around her waist, beneath the warm cape she wore. 
“It is foolish — very foolish to speak like that. You 
surely have no reason to doubt me ?” 

“I do not doubt your love, Nino. I doubt, how- 
ever, whether you have sufficient confidence in me to 
await the elucidation of the strange mystery which 
envelops me — a mystery which even I myself cannot 
penetrate.” 

“Have I not already shown myself patient?” he 
asked with a reproachful look. 

“Yes, yes,.mio adorato,” she hastened to reassure 
him. “You are good and kind and generous, and I 
love you. Only — only I fear the future. I fear you 
— I fear myself.” 

“Why do you fear me, little one?” he asked. 
“Surely I’m not so monstrous — eh?” 

The hand he held trembled. 

“I distrust the future — because I know the fate 
cruel and terrible — which, sooner or later, must befall 
me,” she exclaimed, with heart-sinking. 

“You steadily decline to tell me anything,” he 
said. “If you would only confide in me, we might 
together find some means to combat this mysterious 
catastrophe.” 

“I cannot ! I dare not !” 

“But you must !” he cried. “You shall !” 

“I refuse!” she answered fiercely, a strange light 
suddenly shining in her eyes. 

“You shall not suffer this constant terror merely 
because of a foolish determination to preserve your 
secret. After all, I suppose it is only some curious 
and unfounded dread which holds you awe-stricken, 
when you could afford to laugh it all to scorn.” 


The Shadow 139 

“You will never wring confession from me, Nino — 
never !” 

Her eyes met his fixedly, determinedly. On her 
countenance was an expression as if she were haunted 
by a shadow of evil, as if even then she saw before 
her the dire disaster which she had declared must ere 
long wreck her life, and extinguish all hope of 
happiness. No further word passed her lips, and a 
silence fell between them until the cab drew up at 
the hotel. 

The afternoon being bright and sunny, they went 
down to the Crystal Palace. She had heard of it 
from friends who had visited England, and expressed 
a desire to see it. To a world-weary man about town 
like Charles Armytage, the Sydenham glass-house is 
too reminiscent of childhood days — of screeching 
parrots, lazy goldfish, and chattering nursemaids. 
The clubman never visits the Crystal Palace, save 
perhaps to take some little milliner to see the fire- 
works on a summer’s evening. Like most men of his 
class, Armytage turned up his eyes at mention of the 
Crystal Palace, but, in order to please her, he accom- 
panied her there, pointed out the objects of interest in 
the Centre Transept with the accuracy of a Cook’s 
guide, visited the zoological collection, ascended the 
tower, and did the usual round of mild gaiety which 
used to delight him before he had reached his teens. 

To Gemma, all was fresh and full of interest; she 
even found in the plaster imitations of well-known 
statues something to criticize and admire, although 
she admitted that, living within a stone’s throw of the 
world-famed Uffizi Gallery, she had never entered the 
Tribuna there, nor seen the Satyr, the Wrestlers, or 
the Medici V enus. 

After spending an hour in the Palace, they emerged 
into the grounds, and, descending the many flights of 
steps, passed the great fountains, and strolled down the 
long, broad walk towards Penge, it being their inten- 
tion to return to town from that station. The sun 


140 


The Shadow 


was going down, a grey mist was rising, and the chill 
wind of evening whisked the dead leaves in their 
path. The spacious grounds were silent, deserted, 
cheerless. 

She had taken his arm, and they were walking in 
silence beneath the fast-bearing branches through the 
half-light of the fading day, when suddenly he turned 
to her, saying — 

“I’ve been thinking, Gemma — thinking very deeply 
upon all you told me this morning. I must tell you 
the truth — the truth that it is impossible for me to 
have complete confidence in you if you have none in 
me. The more I reflect upon this strange secret, the 
more am I filled with suspicion. I cannot help it. 
I have struggled against all my doubts and fears — 
but ” 

“You do not trust me?” she cried, hoarsely. “Did 
I not express fear only this morning that you would 
be impatient, and grow tired of the steady refusals I 
am compelled to give you when you demand the 
truth ?” 

“Having carefully considered all the facts, I can 
see no reason — absolutely none — why you should not 
explain the whole truth,” he said rather brusquely. 

“The facts you have considered are those only 
within your own knowledge,” she observed. “There 
are others which you can never know. If you could 
only understand the situation aright, you would at 
once see plainly the reason that I am prepared for any 
sacrifice — even to lose your love, the most precious 
gift that Heaven has accorded me — in order to pre- 
serve my secret.” 

“Then you are ready to wish me farewell if I still 
press for the truth?” he cried, dismayed; for the 
earnestness of her words impressed him forcibly. 

“I am,” she answered in a low, intense voice. 

They had halted in the broad, gravelled walk, and 
were alone. The autumn twilight had deepened, the 
chill wind swept through the trees, bringing down 


The Shadow 


141 

showers of dead leaves at every gust, and in those 
forsaken pleasure-grounds, with their guant white 
statues stained by the recent rains, the scene was 
everywhere one of desolation. 

“Listen!” he cried fiercely, as a sudden resolve 
seized him. “This cannot go on longer, Gemma. I 
have brought you here to London because I love you, 
because I hoped to make you my wife. But you 
seem determined not to allow me to do so; you are 
determined to keep all the story of your past from 
me.” Then, recollecting Malvano’s words when they 
had been shooting together, he added, “If you still 
refuse to tell me anything, then, much as it grieves 
me, we must part.” 

“Part!” she echoed wildly. “Ah yes, Nino! I 
knew you would say that. Did I not tell you long, 
long ago, that it would be imposible for us to marry 
in the present circumstances? You doubt me? Well, 
I am scarcely surprised!” and she shuddered pale as 
death. 

“I doubt you because you are never frank with 
me,” he said. 

“I love you, Nino,” she protested with all the 
ardour of her hot Italian blood as she caught his hand 
suddenly and raised it to her fevered lips. “You 
are my very life, for I have no other friend in the 
world. Surely you have been convinced that my 
affection is genuine, that I have not deceived you in 
this!” 

“I believe you love me,” he answered coldly, in a 
half-dubious tone nevertheless. 

“Ah no, caro !” she lisped softly, reproachfully, in 
her soft Tuscan. “Do not speak like that. I cannot 
bear it. If you can trust me no longer, then let us 
part. I — I will go back to Italy again.” And she 
burst into a torrent of hot tears. 

“You’ll go back and face the mysterious charge 
against you?” he asked, with a twinge of sarcasm in 
his voice, as he drew his hand firmly from hers, 


142 


The Shadow 


His words caused her to start. She looked him 
fiercely in the face for an instant, a strange light in 
her beautiful, tearful eyes, then cried huskily — 

“Yes, if you cast me from you, Nino, I care no 
longer to live. I cannot live without your love.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


“traitors die slowly” 

They had returned to the hotel, and Armytage had 
dined with her, but the meal had been a very dismal 
one. Gemma, with woman’s instinct, knew that she 
looked horribly untidy, and that her eyes betrayed 
unmistakable signs of recent tears, therefore she was 
glad when the meal concluded, and she could escape 
from the staring crowd of diners. 

From her lover’s manner, it was also plain that, 
notwithstanding his protestations of blind affection 
in Leghorn, he had suddenly awakened to the fact 
that some deep mystery lay behind her, and that 
he was disinclined to carry their acquaintance much 
further without some explanation. Time after time, 
as she sat opposite him at the table, she had watched 
him narrowly, looking into his dark, serious eyes 
in silence, and trying to divine his thoughts. She 
wondered whether, if he left her, his love for her 
would be sufficient to cause him to return to her side. 
Or had he met, as she once feared he would, some 
other woman — a woman of his own people ; a woman, 
perhaps, that he had loved long ago? This thought 
sank deeply into her mind. As she watched him and 
listened to his low, jerky speech, it seemed plain to 
her that she had guessed the truth. He had grown 
tired of her, and was making her enforced silence an 
excuse for parting. When this thought crossed her 
*43 


144 


‘Traitors die Slowly” 


mind, her bright, clear eyes grew luminous with 
unshed tears. 

He told her that to meet next morning was im- 
possible, as he had business to transact. This she 
knew to be a shallow excuse, as only that morning 
he had told her that his time was completely at her 
disposal. Yes, there was no disguising the truth that 
he had grown weary of her, and now meant to discard 
her. Yet she loved him. 

When an Italian woman loves, it is with a fierce, 
uncontrollable passion, not with that too often sickly 
admiration for a man’s good looks which is so 
characteristic of love among the more northern 
nations. In no country is love so ardent, so pas- 
sionate, so enduring, as in the sunny garden of 
Europe. The Italian woman is slow to develop 
affection, or even to flirt with the sterner sex; but 
when she loves, it is with all the strength of her 
being; she is the devoted slave of her lover, and is 
his for life, for death. Neither the strength of Italian 
affection nor the bitterness of Italian jealousy can be 
understood in England, unless by those who have 
lived among the hot-blooded Tuscans in that country 
where the sparkle of dark eyes electrify, and where 
the knives are cheap, and do their work swiftly and 
well. 

They passed out of the table d'hote room into the 
hall, where the gilt and marble shone beneath the 
glare of electricity, where mountains of luggage were 
continually passing in and out, where uniformed 
boys shouted cabalistic numbers, and gaudily dressed 
porters opened and closed the great swing-doors every 
moment. Then he stretched forth his hand. 

“You are not coming to see me to-morrow, Nino?” 
she asked in a low, despondent voice. 

“No,” he replied, “I have an appointment.” 

“But you can surely dine here?” 

“I am not quite certain,” he answered. “If I can, I 
"Will send you a telegram?” 


“Traitors die Slowly" 


HS 


“ You are impatient — you who promised me to wait 
until I could give you some satisfactory explanation. 
It is cruel of you — very cruel, Nino,” she said in a voice 
scarcely above a whisper. 

‘'You are never straightforward,” he replied quickly. 
“If you confessed to me, all this anxiety would at once 
cease.” 

“I cannot.” 

“No,” he said meaningly; “you will not. You dare 
not, because your past has not been what it should have 
been ! Buona sera !” and with this parting allegation 
he lifted his hat and bowed stiffly. 

“Felicissima notte, Nino,” she answered so low as to 
be almost inaudible. 

Then he turned and passed out of the great glass 
doors which the porters held open for him, and, de- 
scending the steps, was lost to sight. 

Gemma went to her room, and, bursting into tears, 
sat for a long time alone, despairing, plunged in grief. 
She knew by her lover' s manner that he had forsaken 
her, and she felt herself alone in gigantic London, 
where the language, the people, the streets, all were 
strange to her. As she sat in her low easy-chair, a 
slim, graceful figure in her pale-blue dinner-dress, she 
clenched her tiny white hands till the nails embedded 
themselves in the palms, as she uttered with wild 
abandon the name of the man she so fondly loved. 

“Ah!” she cried aloud. “You, Nino, who have 
treated me with this suspicion and contempt — you 
who have brought me here among your people and 
deserted me — can never know how much I have sacri- 
ficed for your sake. Nor can you ever know how 
fondly I love you. Why have I acted with all this 
secrecy must for ever remain a mystery. You have 
left me,” she added in a hoarse, strained voice, half 
inaudible on account of her sobs — “you have left me 
now; but some day when I am free — when I can show 
you things in their true light — you will regret that 
to-night you have broken a woman’s heart.” And she 


146 


“Traitors die Slowly 3 


bent forward and gave way to a flood of hot, pas- 
sionate tears. 

Fully half an hour she sat plunged in a deep 
melancholy, but at last she arose and crossed the room 
unsteadily. Her fair brow bore a look of determina- 
tion, her face was hard set, and in her tear-stained 
eyes was an expression of strength of will. 

“Yes,” she murmured, “Fll risk all. My life can- 
not be rendered more hopeless, more wretched, than it 
now is in this atmosphere of doubt and suspicion.” 
Then she bathed her face in eau-de-Cologne, sniffed 
her smelling-salts, rubbed her cheeks with a towel to 
take away their ghastly pallor, and assuming her 
travelling-coat, with its wide fur collar and cuffs, 
which, being long, hid her dress, she put on her hat 
and went out. 

She went up to one of the porters in the hall 
hastily, and said — 

“Prendetemi una vettura.” 

The man looked at her in surprise, unable to under- 
stand her. She pointed outside to where several han- 
soms were passing. 

“Oh! a cab you want, miss!” he cried, the fact 
suddenly dawning upon him; and as he touched the 
electric bell which calls for cabs from the rank, she 
handed him the slip of paper she had that morning 
received. 

The porter read it, descended the steps with her, 
handed her into the cab, and, having shouted the 
address to the man, she was driven rapidly away to 
St. James’s Street, where she ascended to the second 
floor, and found upon a door a brass plate bearing 
Captain Tristram's name. 

She rang the bell, and in response the smart, 
soldier-servant Smayle appeared, and looked at her 
in surprise. 

“The Signor Capitano Tristram?” she inquired. 

“Yes, miss,” the man answered; and she entered the 
hall, and glanced around her while he closed the door. 


“Traitors die Slowly” 147; 

At that moment Tristram’s voice, from one of the 
rooms beyond, cried — 

“Show the lady in, Smayle.” 

She followed the servant into the cosy sitting-room 
redolent of cigars. A bright fire was burning, for 
the night was chilly, and on the table stood a man’s 
comforter in the shape of a tantalus stand and glasses. 
She was gazing round the apartment, noting how 
comfortable it was, when suddenly the door reopened 
and Tristram entered. He had evidently been dining 
out, or to a theatre, and had now discarded his dress- 
coat for an easy velvet lounge-jacket. When he had 
closed the door, he stood for a moment regarding her 
in silence. 

“Well,” he said at length in Italian. “So you 
have come, eh ?” His welcome was certainly the 
reverse of cordial. 

“Yes,” she faltered; “I have come. How did you 
know I was in London ?” 

Certain furrows on Tristram's brow revealed pro- 
found thought. He was essentially a contemplative 
man; yet the firmness and contour of his mouth, the 
carriage of the head somewhat bold and imperious, 
betrayed the man of action, whose physical force and 
courage would always exercise on the multitude an 
irresistible ascendency. 

“A woman who is wanted by the police always 
has some difficulty in concealing her whereabouts,” 
he answered meaningly. His countenance was hard 
and vengeful; his features expressed so much disdain 
and cruelty at that moment that one would scarcely 
believe they could ever be susceptible of any gentle 
emotion. 

“Why do you throw that in my face?” she asked 
angrily. 

“My dear signorina,” he answered, crossing the 
room, “come here to this chair and sit down. I 
want to talk to you very seriously, if you’ll allow 


‘'Traitors die Slowly” 


i /]8 

She moved slowly across, and, sinking into the arm- 
chair near the fire, unbuttoned her long coat. 

“No,” he said; “it’s hot in this room; take it off, 
or you won’t find the benefit of it when you leave. 
See how solicitous I am after your health;” and he 
laughed. 

In silence she rose and allowed him to help her 
divest herself of the heavy garment. 

“How charming you look!” he said. “I really 
don’t wonder that you captivate the hearts of men — 
those who don’t know you.” 

“It seems that you’ve invited me here for the 
purpose of raking up all my past,” she cried, darting 
at him a fierce look. “I have accepted your invita- 
tion because you and I are old friends, because our 
interests are identical.” 

“How ?” he asked, puzzled. 

“There is a certain episode in my career that must 
for ever remain a profound secret,” she said in a low 
but distinct tone. “And there is one in yours which, 
if revealed, would bring you to disgrace, to ruin — 
nay, to death.” 

He started, and his dark face paled beneath its 
bronze of travel. 

“What do you mean?” he cried, standing astride 
before her, his back to the fire, his arms folded 
resolutely. 

“What I have said !” 

“And you are foolish enough to think that I fear 
you ?” he cried, with biting sarcasm. 

“I think nothing, caro,” she answered in a voice 
of the same intense disdain. “The truth is quite 
obvious. We fear each other.” 

“I fear you?” And he laughed, as if the absurdity 
of the idea were humorous. 

“Yes,” she said fiercely. “I am no longer power- 
less in your hands. You know well my character, 
signore — you know what kind of woman I am.” 

“Yes, I do, unfortunately,” he answered. “And 


“Traitors die Slowly" 


149 


what, pray, does all this extraordinary exhibition of 
bitterness imply?" he asked, at once assuming all his 
sang-froid , notwithstanding the position so strange 
and dangerous for him. 

“You force me to speak plainly," she said, her 
eyes flashing angrily, as only those of an Italian woman 
can flash. “Well, then, reflect upon the strange 
death of Vittorina, and bear in mind by whom was 
her death so ingeniuosly compassed." 

He sprang towards her suddenly in a fierce 
ebullition of indignation, his hand uplifted as if he 
intended to strike her. 

“Enough ! Curse you !" he muttered. 

“Take care," she said calmly, without stirring irom 
her seat. “If you touch me, it is at your own peril." 

“Threats?" 

“Threats ! And to prove to you that they are not in 
vain," she said, “learn, in the first place, that the police 
have discovered the identity of the Major, and that a 
warrant is already issued for his arrest." 

“I don’t believe it," he cried. “You have no proof." 

“Inquire of your friends at the Embassy," she 
replied ambiguously. “You will there learn the 
truth." 

“Listen !" he cried wildly, grasping her roughly 
by the wrist. “What allegation do you make against 
me ? Come, speak !" 

“You have shown yourself at enmity with me, 
therefore it will remain for you to discover that 
afterwards," she answered, shaking him off. “One 
does not show one’s hand to one’s adversaries." 

“You mentioned the death of your friend Vittorina 
— well ?" 

“Well?" she repeated, still coldly and calmly. 
“It is of no use to further refer to that tragic cir- 
cumstance, except to say that I am aware of the 
truth." 

“The truth!" he cried blankly. “Then who killed 
her?" 


“Traitors die Slowly* 


150 

“You know well enough with what devilish ingen- 
uity her young life was taken; how at the moment 
when she least expected danger she was cut off by a 
means so curious and with such swiftness as to baffle 
even the cleverest doctors in London. You know the 
truth, Signor Capitano — so do I.” 

“You would explain how her life was taken; you 
would tell the world the strange secret by which she 
was held in bondage. But you shan't," he cried 
standing before her with clenched fists. “By Heaven, 
you shan't 1" 

“Traitors die slowly in London, but they do die," 
she said slowly, with deep meaning. 

“Curse you !" he cried. “What do you intend to 
do?" 

“Listen !" she answered, rising slowly from her 
chair and standing before him resolute, desperate, and 
defiant. “I came here to-night for one purpose — to 
make a proposal to you." 

“A proposal! To marry me, eh?" he laughed. 

“This is no time for weak jokes, signore," she 
answered angrily. “Silence is best in the interests of 
us both, is it not ?" 

He paused, his eyes fixed on the hearthrug. 

“I suppose it is," he admitted at last. 

“Think," she urged, “what would be the result 
were the whole of those strange facts exposed. Who 
would suffer?" 

He nodded, but no word passed his hard lips. 
She noticed that what she uttered now impresed 
him. 

“Our acquaintance," she went on in a more sym- 
pathetic tone, “was formed in curious circumstances, 
and it has only been fraught with unhappiness, sorrow, 
and despair. I come to you to-night, Frank," she 
added in a low, despondent voice, “to ask you to help 
me to regain my freedom." 

He laughed aloud a harsh, cruel laugh, saying — 

“You have already your freedom. I hope you are 


“Traitors die Slowly” 15 1 

enjoying it. No doubt Armytage loves you, and 
London is a change after Tuscany.” 

His laugh aroused within her a veritable tumult of 
hatred. 

“You speak as if I were not an honest woman,” 
she cried, her eyes glistening. “Even you shall not 
brand me as an adventuress.” 

“Well, I think your adventures in Florence and 
in Milan were curious enough,” he said, “even if 
we do not mention that night in Livorno when 
Vittorina ” 

“Ah no!” she exclaimed, interrupting him. “Why 
should you cast that into my face? Now that we are 
friends no longer, you seek to heap disgrace upon me 
by recalling all that has gone by. In this conversa- 
tion I have not sought to bring back to your memory 
any of the many recollections which must be painful. 
My object in coming to you is plain enough. I am 
perfectly straightforward ” 

“For the first time in your life.” 

She took no heed of his interruption, but went on 
saying — 

“Charles Armytage has promised me marriage.” 

“He’s a fool !” was the abrupt rejoinder. “When 
he knows the truth, he’ll hate you just as much as 
I do.” 

“You certainly pay me delicate compliments,” she 
said, drawing herself up haughtily. “Your hatred is 
reciprocated, I assure you. But surely this is not a 
matter of either love or hatred between us. It is a 
mere arrangement for our mutual protection and 
benefit.” 

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, leaning 
back upon the mantelshelf in affected laziness. Then, 
regarding her critically, he added, “You are a pretty 
woman, Gemma. It is your devilish good looks which 
have given you power to hold people within your 
toils.” 

“I know I’m good looking,” she cried petulantly. 


152 


“Traitors die Slowly” 


“Every woman forms an exact estimate of her beauty 
by the aid of her mirror. I don't come here to fasci- 
nate you by my face and smiles. I come to make some 
satisfactory arrangement for the preservation of our 
secret.” 

“In brief, you want my silence?” 

“Yes,” she answered eagerly, looking straight into 
his dark countenance. 

“You're afraid that if you marry Charlie Armytage 
I may expose you — eh ?” 

She nodded, with downcast eyes. 

He was silent for a few moments. 

“Then,” he answered at last in a deep, determined 
voice, “understand once and for all that Armytage 
is a friend of mine. He shall never marry you.” 

She knit her brows and her pale lips twitched 
nervously. 

“Then you are still bent upon wrecking my life?” 
she said slowly and distinctly as she faced hitn. “I 
offer you silence in exchange for my freedom, for it is 
you alone who can give me that. Yet you refuse.” 

“Yes,” he said. “I refuse absolutely.” 

“Then you would debar me from happiness with the 
man I love?” she said in a low, deep whisper. “You, 
the man to whose machinations I owe my present 
wretchedness, refuse to free me from the trammels 
you yourself have cast about me — you refuse to tell 
the truth in exchange for my silence.” 

He looked at her calmly with withering contempt. 

“I have no desire for the silence of such as you,” he 
answered quickly. “I fear nothing that you may say. 
Threats from you are mere empty words, cara.” 

“Then listen !” she cried, her brilliant eyes again 
flashing in desperation. “To-morrow I shall call upon 
Castellani at the Embassy, and tell him the truth.” 

“You dare not!” he gasped fiercely. His face had 
blanched instantly as, advancing a couple of steps 
towards her with clenched hands, he gazed threaten- 
ingly into her eyes. 


“Traitors die Slowly" 


153 


"I have given you an alternative which you have 
rejected, Signor Capitano," she said, taking up her 
fur-trimmed coat. “You defy me; and I wish you 
good night." 

“You intend to expose the whole of the facts?" he 
cried in dismay. “You will incriminate yourself !" 

“I care nothing for that. My happiness is now at 
an end. For the future I have no thought, no care, 
now that you and I are enemies. As I have already 
said, traitors die slowly in London, but they do die." 

“You shall not go to Castellani," the Captain mut- 
tered between his set teeth ; and with a cry of uncurbed, 
uncontrollable rage he sprang upon her before she 
could defend herself or raise an alarm, and, seizing 
her, he compressed his strong, sinewy fingers upon her 
slim white throat. “You shan’t go!" he cried. “No 
further words shall pass your pretty lips — curse you! 
Ill— I’ll kill you!" 


CHAPTER XVII 


smayle’s dilemma 

Tristram’s sinewy fingers tightened upon the slender 
white throat of the helpless woman until her breath 
was crushed from her, her face became crimson, and 
in her wild, starting eyes was a ghastly expression of 
suffering and despair. 

“Mercy !” she managed to gasp with difficulty. “Ah, 
no ! Let me go ! let me go !” 

“Your evil tongue can ruin me. But you shall 
not!” he cried in a frenzy of anger, his face suffused 
by a fierce, murderous passion. “By Heaven, you shall 
die!” 

“If — if you kill me,” she shrieked, “you will suffer; 
for even though Pm outcast, there is a law here, in 
your England, to deal with murderers.” 

“Outcast!” he echoed wildly, with an imprecation. 
“Yes; curse you! Is there any wonder that you are 
hounded out of Italy, after all that has occurred? Is 
there any wonder, after what took place in Tuscany, 
that I now hold you within my hands, eager to ex- 
tinguish the last remaining spark of your life?” 

“You’re a brute!” she cried in a hoarse, gurgling 
voice. “Release me ! I — I can’t breathe !” 

“No, by Heaven, you shall die!” he declared, his 
strong, muscular hands trembling with uncurbed pas- 
sion. “Your infernal tongue shall utter no more 

*54 


Smayle’s Dilemma 155 

foul slanders, for to-night, now — this moment — I’ll 
silence you !” 

She uttered a low, agonized cry, then, fainting, pant- 
ing, breathless, sank upon her knees, unable any longer 
to resist the frightful pressure upon her throat. At 
that instant, however, Smayle, hearing an unusual 
noise, dashed in, and, taking in the situation at a 
glance, seized his master firmly. 

“Good heavens, sir! what’s the matter?” he cried. 
“Why, you’re killing the lady !” 

“Get out!” cried the Captain with an oath, shaking 
himself free, and still holding the fainting woman at 
his feet. “Get out quickly! Leave the house, and — 
and don’t come back !” 

“But you’re killing her!” he cried. “See, there’s 
blood in her mouth !” 

“Obey me this instant !” he roared. “Leave me !” 

“No.” Smayle answered, “I won’t!” And springing 
upon his master, he managed, after a desperate strug- 
gle, to drag his hands free of the kneeling woman’s 
throat and fling him back with a smothered oath. “I 
won’t see a woman murdered in that cowardly way,” 
he declared vehemently, “even if you are my master !” 

“What the devil do my affairs concern you, 
Smayle?” Tristram demanded fiercely, glaring at his 
servant, and glancing at Gemma, now fallen back 
prostrate on the floor, her hat crushed beneath her, 
her fair hair escaping from its pins. 

“They concern me as far as this, sir — that you shall 
leave this room at once. If the lady is dead, then 
you’ve committed murder, and I am witness of it!” 

“You’d denounce me, would you?” the Captain 
shrieked with rage, his hands still clenched in a fierce 
paroxysm of anger. Then, next instant he sprang at 
him. 

But Smayle was a slim, athletic fellow, and, like 
most of the genus Tommy Atkins, knew how to use 
Jiis fists when occasion required. He jumped aside. 


Smayle’s Dilemma 


156 

nimbly evaded the blow his master aimed at him, and 
cleverly tripped up his adversary, so that he fell head- 
long to the ground, bringing down from its pedestal 
a pretty Neapolitan statuette, which was smashed to 
atoms. 

Tristram quickly rose with an imprecation, but 
Smayle, again grappling with him, succeeded at length, 
after an encounter long and fierce, in flinging him out 
of the room, and locking the door. 

Then instantly he turned towards the white-faced 
woman, and, kneeling beside her, endeavoured to 
restore her to consciousness. With his handkerchief 
he staunched the blood slowly trickling from the 
corners of her pale lips, placed a cushion beneath 
her head, and snatching some flowers from a bowl, 
sprinkled her face with the water. Her white, delicate 
throat was dark and discoloured where his master’s 
rough hands had pressed it in his violent attempt to 
strangle her, her dress was torn open at the neck, and 
the gold necklet she had worn, with its tiny enamelled 
medallion, lay upon the ground, broken by the sudden, 
frantic attack. Tenderly the soldier-servant stroked 
her hair, chafed her hands, and endeavoured to restore 
her to consciousness, but all in vain. Inert and help- 
less she remained while he held her head, gazing upon 
her admiringly, but unable to determine the best course 
to pursue. 

The outer door banged suddenly, and he knew his 
master had fled. 

With every appearance of one dead, Gemma lay 
upon the carpet where she had sunk from the cruel, 
murderous hands of the man who had attempted to 
kill her, while Smayle again rose, and obtaining some 
brandy from the liquor-stand, succeeded in forcing a 
small quantity of it down her throat. 

This revived her slightly, for she opened her great 
clear eyes, gazing into Smayle’s with an expression of 
fear and wonder. 


Smayle's Dilemma 


157 


“Drink a little more of this, miss,” the man said 
eagerly, holding the glass to her lips, delighted to 
find that she was not, after all, dead, as he had at 
first feared. 

Unable to understand what he said, she nevertheless 
allowed him to pour a few more drops of the spirit 
down her dry, parched throat, but it caused her to 
cough violently, and she made a gesture that to take 
more was impossible. 

For fully ten minutes she remained silent, motion- 
less, her head lying heavily upon Smayle’s arm, 
breathing slowly, but each moment more regularly. 
The deathly pallor gradually disappeared as the 
blood came back to her cheeks, but the dark rings 
about her eyes and the marks upon her throat, still 
remained as evidence how near she had been to an 
agonizing and most terrible death. 

Uttering no word, Smayle, kneeling at her side and 
holding her tenderly, watched her breast heave and 
fall, content in the knowledge that life, so near 
becoming extinct, was actually returning, and filled 
with wonderment as to who she was. It was evident 
that his master had quarrelled with her; but why 
he had sought to kill her, he could not imagine. 
Smayle understood no word of Italian, and although 
he had listened at the door, he could form no idea of 
what had caused the violent scene. He suspected it 
to be jealousy. 

At last Gemma again opened her eyes and uttered 
some words faintly, making a frantic gesture with 
her hands. The man who had rescued her understood 
that she wished to rise, and, grasping her beneath the 
arms, gradually lifted her into the Captain's great 
leather-covered armchair, in which she reclined, a 
frail, beautiful figure, with eyes half closed and breast 
panting violently after the exertion. 

Smayle, eager to do her bidding, stood by and 
watched. 


158 Smayle’s Dilemma 

“Can I get you anything, miss,” he inquired in 
a low whisper as she turned her fine eyes upon him 
with a mute expression of thanks. 

She did not understand what he said, therefore 
shook her head. 

Then again she closed her eyes, her tiny hands, 
cold and feeble, trembled, and in a few minutes her 
regular breathing made it apparent to the Captain's 
man that, exhausted, she had sunk into a deep and 
peaceful sleep. 

He left her side, and creeping from the room 
noiselessly, searched all the other apartments. His 
master had gone. He had taken with him his two 
travelling-bags — a sign that he had set out upon a 
long journey. As far as Constantinople, one bag 
always sufficed; to Teheran he always took both. 
The fact that the two bags were taken made it plain 
that his absence would be a long one — probably some 
weeks, if not more. 

Smayle stole back to the sitting-room, and saw that 
the blue official ribbon with its silver greyhound 
hung no longer upon its nail, and that his revolver 
was gone. He returned to the Captain’s bedroom, 
and upon the dressing-table found a ten-pound note 
lying open. Across its face had been scribbled 
hastily, in pencil, the words, “For Smayle.” Upon 
the floor were some scraps of paper, letters that had 
been hurriedly destroyed, while in the empty grate 
lay a piece of tinder and a half-consumed wax vesta, 
showing that some letters of more importance than 
the others had been burnt. 

The man, mystified, gathered the scraps together, 
examined them closely, and placed them in a small 
drawer in the dressing-table. Then, putting che 
banknote in his pocket, exclaimed to himself — 

“This is curious, and no kid. The Captain ain’t 
often so generous as to give me a tenner, especially 
when he only paid me yesterday, I wonder who the 


Shayles Dilemma 


^59 

lady is? I wish I could speak to her. She’s some- 
body he’s met, I suppose, when abroad.” 

He went to the hall, and noted what coats his master 
had taken, when suddenly it occurred to him that with- 
out assistance it was impossible that he could have 
carried them all downstairs; somebody must have 
helped him. 

Into the small bachelor’s kitchen he passed, ponder- 
ing deeply over the strange occurrence. Only an 
hour before, his master had arrived home from dining 
at the club, and putting on his well-worn velvet 
lounge-coat, had announced his intention of remain- 
ing at home and smoking. Smayle had asked him 
whether he was under orders to leave with despatches, 
when he had answered that it was not yet his turn, 
and that he expected to have a fortnight in London. 
Three days ago he had returned from St. Petersburg, 
tired, hungry, irritable, as he always was after that 
tedious journey. A run home from Brussels, Paris, 
or even Berlin, never made him short-tempered, but 
always when he arrived from Petersburg, Madrid, 
or '‘Constant.,” he grumbled at everything; always 
declared that Smayle had been drinking his whisky; 
that the place was dirty; that the weather in London 
was brutal; and that ten thousand a year wouldn’t re- 
pay him for the loss of nerve-power on "those infernal 
gridirons they call railways.” 

Yet he had made a serious attempt upon the life 
of a strange lady who had called, and had left hurried- 
ly with sufficient kit to last him six months. 

He was reflecting deeply, wondering what he should 
do with the lady, when suddenly he was startled by 
the door-bell ringing. With military promptness he 
answered it, and found his master’s new acquaintance, 
Arnoldo Romanelli. The latter had spent several 
evenings at Tristram’s chambers since the night they 
had dined together at Bonciani’s, therefore Smayle 
knew him well. 


i6o 


Smayle’s Dilemma 


'The Captain's not at home, sir," he answered, in 
reply to the visitor's inquiry. 

"Is he away?" 

"He left this evening suddenly." 

"On important business, I suppose?" 

"Yes, sir," Smayle answered. Then he added, 
"Excuse me, sir, but you are Italian, aren't you ?" 

"Yes; why?" Arnoldo asked in surprise. 

Smayle hesitated, fidgeted a moment, and then 
answered — 

"Well, sir, there's a lady there, in the Captain's 
sitting-room, and she’s not well, and she can't speak 
English." 

"A lady?" cried Romanelli, suddenly interested. 
"Young or old?" 

"Young, sir. She's Italian, I believe. And I 
thought, sir, that perhaps you wouldn't mind assist- 
ing a friend of my master's." 

"Of course not. Take me to her at once," he said. 
"Is she very ill ?" 

"She had a bad fainting fit," answered the servant 
as he led the way into the sitting-room. She was 
still lying back in the chair, now quite conscious, 
but still pale, dishevelled, and so exhausted as to be 
scarcely able to move her limbs. They seemed para- 
lyzed by the excruciating torture she had undergone. 

The opening of the door aroused her, and looking 
up, her eyes met those of the young Italian. 

"You — Gemma!" he cried in profound surprise, 
rushing forward. "Why are you here — in London? 
And in Tristram's rooms?" 

She held her breath in amazement at this unex- 
pected meeting. 

"I — I called here," she explained in a low, weak 
voice, "and became seized with a sudden faintness. 
I— I think I fell." 

"I trust you're not hurt," he said quickly. "You 
are pale and trembling. Shall I call a doctor?" 


Smayle’s Dilemma 161 

“No, no, ,, she answered. “In a few minutes I shall be 
quite right again.” 

Romanelli noticed her necklet at his feet, and picked 
it up. Then he glanced across the room and saw the 
broken statuette, and his quick, dark eyes detected 
signs of a struggle in the disarranged hearth-rug and 
the chairs pushed out of place. 

“Merely fainting did not break this,” he said 
gravely, holding up the chain and picking up the tiny 
medallion enamelled with a picture of a dog's head 
with the words beneath, “Toujours Fidele.'' The 
chain and its pendant were simple and old-fashioned, 
the one remaining link of her girlhood days at the 
Convent of San Paolo della Croce. Often when she 
had looked at it, she remembered what the grave-eyed 
Mother Superior had told her about personal vanity, 
and how she had been more than once disgraced 
because she preferred to wear that simple little 
medallion instead of her little gold crucifix. 

She held out her hand in silence, and the young 
man placed both chain and medallion in her palm. 
Then, with her great, pain-darkened eyes fixed upon 
him, she kissed the chain reverently, afterwards 
slipping both into her glove, and sighing. 

“Gemma,” continued Romanelli, bending beside her 
chair, “what does this mean? Tell me. Why have 
you come to London ?” 

She shook her head. 

“This man can't speak Italian,” he explained, 
glancing at Smayle, who stood beside wondering. 
“We can talk quite freely. Come, tell me what has 
happened.” 

“Nothing,” she assured him in a low tone. 

“But why are you in London? Were you not 
afraid?” 

“Afraid?” she echoed. “Why should I be? I am 
just as safe here in England, as I was in Florence or 
Livorno.” 


1 62 


Smayle's Dilemma 


“Vittorina died within the first hour she set foot in 
London/' he observed with a grave, meaning look. 

“You loved her,” she said. “You have all my 
sympathy, Arnoldo. Some day we shall know the 
truth; then those responsible for her death shall re- 
ceive no mercy at our hands.” 

“That chapter of my life has closed,” the young 
Italian said, with a touch of sorrow in his voice. 
“She has been murdered, but by whom v/e cannot yet 
tell.” He paused, then added, “What object had 
you, Gemma, in leaving Italy? And why have you 
come here? Surely you know that you have enemies 
in London — enemies as cruel, as unrelenting, as 
cunning as those who killed poor Vittorina.” 

“I am well aware of that,” she answered, stirring 
uneasily in her chair, and putting up her hand to her 
bruised throat. “I know I have enemies. To one 
person, at least, my death would be welcome,” she 
added, remembering the fierce struggle in that room 
an hour before. 

“Then why have you risked everything and come 
here? You were far safer in Italy,” he said. 

“I was not safer there. I am safe nowhere,” she 
replied. “The police have discovered some of the 
facts, and ” 

“The police !” he gasped in alarm. “Our secret is 
out, then ?” 

“Not entirely. I was warned to leave Livorno with- 
in twenty-four hours, and advised to leave Italy alto- 
gether. Then — well, I came here.” 

“With your lover, eh?” 

She nodded. 

“And you will marry him ?” the young Italian 
observed slowly. “You do not fear the exposure 
which afterwards must come ? These English are 
fond of looking closely into the woman's past, you 
know.” 

She shrugged her shoulders, answering — 


Smayle’s Dilemma 163 

“My past is secret. Fortunately, the one person 
who knows the truth dares not speak.” 

“Then what I know is of no account?” he said, 
somewhat surprised. 

She laughed. 

“If you and I have ever flirted, or even exchanged 
foolish letters, it was long ago, when we had not the 
experience of the world we now have. I do not 
dread exposure of your knowledeg of my past.” 

“But this lover of yours, this Englishman — why 
does he believe in you so blindly?” Romanelli in- 
quired. “Is he so utterly infatuated that he thinks 
you absolutely innocent of the world and its ways ?” 

“My affairs of the heart are of no concern to you 
now, Arnoldo,” she answered a trifle coquettishly. 

“But I come here to a man’s rooms, and find you 
in his sitting-room in a half-conscious state, trembling 
and afraid, with every sign of a desperate struggle in 
your dress and in the room, and therefore I, once 
your boy-lover, seek an explanation,” he said. “True, 
the affection between us is dead long, long ago, but 
remember that you and I both have interests in com- 
mon, and that by uniting we may effect the overthrow 
of our enemies. If we do not — well, you know the fate 
that awaits us.” 

“Yes,” she answered in a voice that sounded low 
and distant. “I know, alas ! too well — too well !” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


WHAT LADY MARSHFIELD KNEW 

Some days passed. Charles Armytage had not called 
again at the hotel, having resolved to end the 
acquaintance. He regretted deeply that he had 
brought Gemma to London; yet when he pondered 
over it in the silence of his own rooms in Ebury 
Street, he told himself that he still loved her, that she 
was chic, beautiful, and even this mystery surround- 
ing her might one day be elucidated. 

The action of the authorities in Leghorn puzzled 
him. Gemma's secret was, without doubt, of a 
character which would not bear the light of day. 
Still, as days went on and he heard nothing of her, he 
began to wonder whether she was at the hotel, or 
whether she had carried out her intention of returning 
to Italy. 

He loved her. This brief parting had increased his 
affection to such an extent that he thought of her 
hourly, remembering her sweet, musical voice, her 
pretty broken English, her happy smiles whenever he 
was at her side. Her face, as it rose before him in his 
daydreams, was not that of an adventuress, but of a 
sweet, loving woman who existed in mortal terror of 
some terrible catastrophe ; its childlike innocence 
was not assumed; her blue eyes had the genuine 
clearness of those of an honest woman. 

164 


What Lady Marshfield Knew 165 

Thoughts such as these filled his mind daily. He 
passed the hours at the rooms of friends, at the 
club, at the theatres, anywhere where he could obtain 
distraction, but in all he saw the same face, with the 
same calm look of reproach, those same eyes glisten- 
ing with tears as had been before him in the hall of 
the Victoria on that well-remembered evening when 
they parted. 

At last, one morning, he could bear the suspense no 
longer. Bitterly reproaching himself for having acted 
so harshly as to leave her alone in a country where 
she was strange and did not know the language, he 
took a cab and drove down to Northumberland 
Avenue. 

He inquired at the bureau of the hotel, and was 
informed that the Signorina Fanetti had left three 
days ago, and that she had given no address to which 
letters might be forwarded. He thanked the clerk, 
turned, and went blindly down the steps into the 
street, crushed, grief-stricken, the sun of his existence 
blotted out. 

He remembered his protestations in Livorno; he 
remembered all that had passed between them, and 
saw that he had acted as a coward and a cad. That 
she loved him he had no doubt, and it was almost plain 
to him that she had left London heartbroken. 

Armytage was very well known in London, and as 
soon as his friends knew he was back again, the 
usual flow of invitations poured in upon him. In his 
endeavour to divert his thoughts, he accepted all and 
sundry, and one evening went to Lady Marshfield’s, 
whose receptions were always a feature of London 
life. 

The eccentric old lady had long been his friend. 
Like so many other young and good-looking men, he 
had been “taken up” by her ladyship, flattered, 
petted, and feted, utterly unconscious that by allow- 
ing this to be done he was making himself the 


1 66 What Lady Marshfield Knew 

laughing-stock of the whole set in which he moved. 
But the ugly old woman’s attentions had at last 
nauseated him, as they had done every other young 
man, and his absence abroad had for a long time 
prevented him calling at Sussex Square. 

But to the card for this particular evening was 
added, in her ladyship’s own antiquated handwriting, 
a few words expressing pleasure at his return to 
London, and a hope that he would call and see 
her. 

“Ugly as sin, and still fancies herself a girl,” he 
exclaimed petulantly when he had opened the letter 
at the club. “And that false hair — bah!” Then 
thrusting his card into the pocket of his dining-jacket, 
he did not recollect it until the afternoon of the day 
for which he was invited. 

Lady Marshfield’s junketings were distinctly 
brilliant on account of the large number of the 
diplomatic corps which she always gathered about her, 
and this evening there was a particularly noteworthy 
crowd. There were many young attaches, many 
pretty girls, a few elderly diplomats, a fair sprink- 
ling of members of Parliament, and a large gathering 
of the exclusive set in which her ladyship moved. 
The rooms were well lit, the electricity bringing joy 
to every feminine heart, as it always does, because it 
shows their jewels to perfection; the flowers were 
choice and abundant, and the music was by one of the 
most popular orchestras in London. But it was 
always so. If one went to Lady Marshfield’s, one 
could always rely upon meeting a host of interesting 
people, the latest traveller, the latest novelist, the 
latest painter; and passing an evening without being 
bored. 

When Charles Armytage shook the old lady’s hand 
at the head of the stairs, her thin blue lips parted in 
what she considered her sweetest smile, and she said — 

“You have quite deserted me, Charles. I hear 


What Lady Marshfield Knew 167 

you’ve been in London a whole fortnight, and yet this 
is your first visit !” 

“I’ve been busy,” he answered. “I was away so 
long that I found such lots of things wanting my 
attention when I came back.” 

“Ah ! no excuses, no excuses,” the old lady croaked. 
“You young men are always full of excellent reasons 
for not calling. Well, go in; you’re sure to find some 
people you know. When I can, I want to have a 
serious chat with you, so don’t leave before I’ve seen 
you again. Promise me?” 

“Certainly,” he said, amused at her senile coquetry, 
as with a smile she bowed, and he passed on into the 
great apartment filled to overflowing with its dis- 
tinguished crowd. 

Careless of all about him, he wandered on through 
the great salons until he met several people he knew, 
and then the evening passed quite gaily. 

At last, an hour past midnight, he found himself 
again at Lady Marshfield’s side. 

“Well,” she said as they passed into one of the 
smaller rooms then unoccupied, for the guests were 
already departing — “well, why have you been so long 
away ?” 

“I had no incentive to stay in England,” he said. 
“I find life much more amusing on the Continent, and 
I’m a bit of a Bohemian, you know.” 

“When you are in love — eh?” she laughed. 

Her words stabbed him, and he frowned. 

“If I want a wife, I supose I can find one in 
London,” he snapped, rather annoyed. 

“But it was love which kept you in Tuscany so 
long,” she observed with sarcasm. “Because you love 
Gemma Fanetti.” 

He started in surprise. 

“How did you know?” he inquired. 

“News of that sort travels quickly,” the old lady 
answered, glancing at him craftily. “It is to be 
regretted.” 


1 68 


What Lady Marshfield Knew 


“Why?” 

“Because a woman of her character could never 
become your wife, Charles,” she replied after a 
moment’s hesitation. “Take my advice; think no 
more of her.” 

Strange, he pondered, how every one agreed that 
her past would not bear investigation, yet all seemed 
to conspire against him to preserve the secret. 

“We have already parted,” he said in a low voice. 
On many previous occasions they had spoken together 
confidentially. 

At that moment a manservant entered, glanced 
quickly across the room, and noticing with whom his 
mistress was conversing, turned and rapidly made his 
exit. Armytage was seated with his back to the door, 
therefore did not notice that the eminently respect- 
able servant was none other than the man in whose 
company he had shot down in Berkshire — the jovial 
Malvano. 

That evening the movements of the village doctor 
of Lyddington had been somewhat mysterious. He 
had arrived about dinner-time as an extra hand, and 
had served refreshments in the shape of champagne- 
cup, coffee, sandwiches and biscuits to the hungry 
ones — and it is astonishing how hungry and thirsty 
people always are at other people’s houses, even if 
they have only finished dinner half an hour before. 
His face was imperturbable, his manner stiff, and the 
style in which he handled plates and glasses perfect. 

One incident, at least, would have struck the on- 
looker as curious. While standing behind the im- 
provised buffet serving champagne, Count Castellani, 
the Italian Ambassador, a tall, striking figure with his 
dozen or so orders strung upon a tiny golden chain in 
his lappel, approached and demanded some wine. 
Malvano opened a fresh bottle, and while pouring it 
out His Excellency exclaimed in a low half-whisper in 
Italian — 


What Lady Marshfield Knew 169 

"To-morrow at twelve, at the Embassy 

"Si, signore,” the other answered without raising his 
head, apparently still engrossed in pouring out the 
wine. 

"You’re still on the alert?” asked the Ambassador 
in an undertone. 

"Si, signore.” 

"Good! To-morrow I must have a consultation 
with you,” answered His Excellency, tossing off the 
wine and moving slowly away down the room to greet 
the French naval attache, a short, elegant man who 
was at that moment approaching. 

By the secret confidences thus exchanged, it was 
evident that Count Castellani and Doctor Malvano 
thoroughly understood each other ; and, further, it was 
plain that upon some person in that assembly Filippo, 
head-waiter at the Bonciani, was keeping careful 
observation. Yet he apparently attended to his work 
as a well-trained servant should ; and even when he 
discovered Armytage with her ladyship, he was in no 
way confused, but retreated quietly without attracting 
the young man’s attention. 

"Why have you parted from Gemma?” her ladyship 
asked, as she leant back in her chair, after a pause. 

"Well,” answered Armytage, hesitating, "have you 
not said that she’s an impossible person?” 

"Of course. But when a man’s in love ” 

"He alters his mind sometimes,” he interrupted, 
determined not to tell this woman the truth. 

"So you’ve altered your mind?” she said. "You ' 
ought really to congratulate yourself that you’ve been 
able to do so.” 

"Why?” 

Lady Marshfield regarded her visitor gravely, fanned 
herself slowly in silence for some moments, then 
answered — 

"Because it is not wise for a man to take as wife 
a woman of such an evil reputation.” 


170 What Lady Marshfield Knew 

"Evil reputation !” he echoed. "What do you mean 
by evil ?” 

"Her reputation is wide enough in Italy. I wonder 
you did not hear of her long ago,” her ladyship 
answered. 

"You speak as if she were notorious.” 

"Ask any one in Turin, in Milan, or Florence. They 
will tell you the truth,” she replied. "Your idol is, 
without doubt, the most notorious person in the whole 
of Italy.” 

"The most notorious!” he cried. "You speak in 
enigmas. I won't have Gemma maligned this way,” 
he added fiercely. 

She smiled. It was a smile of triumph. She was 
happy that they were already parted, and she sought 
now to embitter him against her, in order that he 
should not return to her. 

"Have you never heard of the Countess Funaro?” 
she asked in a calm voice. 

"The Countess Funaro!” he cried. "Of course I 
have. Her escapades have lately been the talk of 
society in Rome and Florence. Only a couple of 
months ago a duel took place at Empoli, the outcome 
of a quarrel which she is said to have instigated, and 
the young advocate Cassuto was shot dead.” 

"He was her friend,” her ladyship observed. 

"Well?” 

"Well,” said Lady Marshfield, "don’t you think 
that you were rather foolish to fall in love with a 
woman of her reputation?” 

"Good Heavens !” he cried, starting up. "No, that 
can’t be the truth ! Gemma cannot be the notorious 
Contessa Funaro!” 

"If you doubt me, go out to Italy again and make 
inquiries,” the eccentric old lady answered calmly. 

"But the Countess Funaro has the most unenviable 
reputation of any person in Italy. I’ve heard hundreds 
of extraordinary stories regarding her.” 


What Lady Marshfield Knew 171 

"And the latest is your own interesting experience 

—eh r 

“I — I really can’t believe it,” Armytage said, dumb- 
founded. 

"No; I don’t expect you do. She’s so amazingly 
clever that she can cause her dupes to believe in her 
absolutely. Her face is so innocent that one would 
never believe her capable of such heartless actions as 
are attributed to her.” 

"But what experience have you personally had of 
her?” he inquired, still dubious. He knew that 
this elderly woman of the world was utterly un- 
scrupulous. 

"I met her in Venice last year,” her ladyship said. 
"All Venice was acquainted with her deliciously 
original countenance. Her notoriety was due to her 
pretty air of astonishment, the purity of her blue 
eyes, and the expression of chaste innocence which 
she can assume when it so pleases her — an expression 
which contrasts powerfully with her true nature, 
shameless creature that she is.” 

"And are you absolutely positive that the woman 
I love as Gemma Fanetti is none other than the 
Contessa Funaro, the owner of the great historic 
Funaro Palace in Florence, and the Villa Funaro at 
Ardenza ?” 

"I have already told you all I know.” 

"But you have given me no proof.” 

"I merely express satisfaction that you have been 
wise enough to relinquish all thoughts of marrying 
her.” 

"I really can’t believe that this is the truth. How 
did you know she was in London?” 

"I was told so by one who knows her. She has 
been staying at the Victoria,” her ladyship answered. 

"I don’t believe what you say,” he cried wildly. 
"No, I won’t believe it. There is some mistake.” 
“She has left the hotel,” Lady Marshfield said, 


172 What Lady Marshfield Knew 

fixing her cold eyes on him. “Follow her, and 
charge her with the deception.” 

“It is useless. I am confident that Gemma is not 
this notorious Contessa.” 

Her ladyship made a gesture of impatience, saying — 

“I have no object in deceiving you, Charles. I 
merely think it right that you should be made aware 
of the truth, hideous as it is.” 

“But is it the truth ?” he demanded fiercely. 
“There is absolutely no proof. I certainly never 
knew her address in Florence, but at Livorno she 
lived in a little flat on the Passeggio. If she were 
the Contessa, she would certainly have lived in 
her own beautiful villa at Ardenza, only a mile 
away.” 

“She may have let it for the season,” his hostess 
quickly observed. 

“The Countess Funaro is certainly wealthy enough, 
if reports be true, without seeking to obtain a paltry 
two or three thousand lire for her villa,” he said. 

“She no doubt had some object in living quietly 
as she did, especially as she was hiding her identity 
from you.” 

“I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” he declared, 
as the remembrance of her passionate declarations of 
love flooded his mind. If what her ladyship alleged 
were actually the truth, then all her ingenuousness had 
been artificial; all her words of devotion feigned and 
meaningless; all her kisses false; all mere hollow 
shams for the purpose of deceiving and ensnaring him 
for some ulterior object. “Until I have proof of , 
Gemma’s perfidy and deceit, I will believe no word 
against her,” he declared decisively. 

“You desire proof?” the old woman said, her 
wizened face growing more cruel as her eyes again 
met his. “Well, you shall have it at once;” and, 
rising, she crossed to a small escritoire, and took from 
it a large panel portrait, which she placed before him. 


What Lady Marshfield Knew 173 

“Read the words upon this,” she said, w th an evil 
gleam in her vengeful gaze. 

He took the picture with trembling hands, and read 
the following, written boldly across the base : — 

“T'invio la mia fotografia, cosi ti sara sempre 
presente la mia efige, che ti obblighera a ricordarmi. 
Tua aff : — Gemma Luisa Funaro.” 

The photograph was by Alvino, of Florence, from 
the same negative as the one at that moment upon the 
table in his chambers. The handwriting was un- 
doubtedly that of a woman he loved dearer than life. 

Charles Armytage stood pale and speechless. In- 
deed, it was a hideous truth. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A SECRET DESPATCH 

At noon next day Count Castellani, the Italian 
Ambassador to the Court of St. James, stood at the 
window of his private room gazing out upon cabs 
and carriages passing and repassing around Grosvenor 
Square. 

In his hand was a secret and highly important 
despatch which had only ten minutes before arrived 
from Rome by special messenger. His brows were 
knit, and he was pondering deeply over it. He 
stroked his grey beard and sighed, murmuring to 
himself — 

“Extraordinary ! Most extraordinary ! If I had 
suspected such a complication as this, I should have 
never accepted this Embassy. True, this is the highest 
office in our diplomatic service — an office which I have 
coveted ever since I was a young attache at Brussels. 
And now that I have fame in my own country, and 
honour among these English, I am unable to enjoy it. 
Ah ! the fruits of life are always bitter — always !” 

Then he drew another heavy sigh, and remained 
silent, gazing moodily out, his dark eyes fixed blankly 
upon the handsome square. No sound reached that 
well-furnished room with its double windows and 
hangings of dark-red velvet, the chamber in which the 
greatest of English statesmen had often sat discussing 

174 


A Secret Despatch 


175 


the future of the European situation and the proba- 
bilities of war ; the room in which on one memorable 
day a defensive alliance had been arranged between 
Italy and England, the culminating master-stroke of 
diplomacy which had obviated a great and disastrous 
European war. And it was the tall, handsome, grey- 
bearded man, at that moment standing at his window 
plunged in melancholy, who had thus successfully 
saved his own country, Italy, by concluding the 
treaty whereby the fine Italian Navy would, in the 
event of war, unite with the British fleet against all 
enemies — the alliance whereby England would be 
strengthened against all the machinations of the 
Powers, and bankrupt Italy would still preserve her 
dignity among nations. It had been a truly clever 
piece of diplomacy. By careful observation and 
cunning ingenuity, Count Castellani had obtained 
knowledge of the projected action of France, of 
Germany, and of Russia, while the British Foreign 
Office had remained in utter ignorance. Then one day 
he had invited Lord Felixtowe, her Majesty’s Princi- 
pal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and in that 
room he had plainly told the story of the conspiracy 
in progress against England. The Foreign Minister 
was so surprised that at first he could not credit that 
the Powers implicated could have the audacity to 
contemplate the invasion of our island; but when his 
Excellency brought forward certain undeniable proofs, 
he was compelled to admit the truth of his assertion. 

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, the subject 
of a defensive alliance was mooted. United with the 
magnificent vessels of the Italian Navy, the battleships 
of Britain could hold the seas against all comers. 
There was no time to be lost, for Russian diplomacy 
was shrewdly at work in Rome with the object of 
contracting an alliance between the government of 
the Czar and that of King Humbert. Therefore, 
without consulting the Cabinet, Lord Felixtowe hacj 


176 


A Secret Despatch 


accepted the Ambassador’s proposals, and within 
twenty-four hours a treaty was signed, which has ever 
since been Europe’s safeguard against war. It was a 
short document, its draft covering only half a sheet of 
foolscap; but it was a bond between two friendly 
nations, which, it is to be hoped, will never be severed. 

Yet the life of an ambassador is by no means 
enviable. Even when promoted to the first rank, he 
obtains but little thanks from his chief, and less from 
his own compatriots at home. In this instance, Count 
Castellani, through whose ingenuity and far-sighted- 
ness England, and perhaps the whole of Europe, had 
been saved from an encounter of so fierce, sanguinary, 
and frightful a nature as the world has never yet 
witnessed, obtained not a word of thanks from the 
Italian people. Indeed, beyond a private autograph 
note from his sovereign and a long and formal 
despatch from the Marquis Montelupo, his master- 
stroke had passed by unnoticed and unknown save to 
those who had for years been plotting the downfall of 
the British Empire. The result was that in this, as in 
nearly every case where clever diplomacy is needed, 
the result of the negotiations remained hidden from 
the public. In this case, as in so many others, the 
alliance was entirely secret, and only after some 
months was its existence allowed to leak out, and 
only then in order that the enemies of England should 
hesitate before embarking upon any desperate step. 

Sometimes, in his fits of melancholy, Count Castel- 
lani, like all other men, could not help feeling dis- 
contented. He was but human. When he reflected 
upon the glory which the German and French 
Ambassadors were accorded in their own countries 
each time they carried through some paltry, un- 
important little piece of diplomacy, his heart grew 
weary within him. It was in this mood, unhappy 
and discontented, that he stood at the window with 
the secret despatch in his white, nervous hand, What 


A Secret Despatch 


i 77 


he had read there brought back to him a recollection 
of days bygone — a recollection that was painful and 
bitter now that he had risen to be chief of the service 
in which he had spent the greater part of his life. 

Yet it held him stupefied. 

Again he sighed. His daughter Carmenilla, a slim, 
dark-haired girl of twenty, entered softly and, seeing 
her father silent and pensive, moved noiselessly across 
the room. He was wifeless, and all his love was 
bestowed upon his daughter, who held her father in 
absolute reverence. Carmenilla was not beautiful, 
but she was her father’s companion, helpmate, and 
friend. She stood behind him, and heard him 
exclaim, in a low voice only just audible — 

“If what I suspect is true, then the secret is out. 
I must obtain leave of absence and go to Rome. 
Perhaps even now my letters of recall are on their 
way! Nevertheless, it is too strange to believe. No; 
at present I must wait. I can’t — I won’t believe 
it!” 

At that moment there was a tap at the door, and as 
Carmenilla slipped out noiselessly, the liveried Italian 
servant announced that Dr. Malvano had called. 

“Show him in here,” his Excellency answered, 
crossing instantly to his writing-table, unlocking one 
of the drawers, and placing the secret despatch 
therein. 

When Malvano entered, rosy, buxom, and smiling, 
well dressed in a frock-coat, and carrying his silk hat 
and stick with that air adopted by members of the 
medical profession, the Count shook him by the hand 
and greeted him cordially. Without invitation, his 
Excellency’s visitor tossed his hat and stick upon the 
sofa, sank into the nearest chair, and stretched out his 
legs, apparently quite at home. 

The Ambassador, first raising the heavy velvet 
portiere, and slipping the small brass bolt of the door 
into its socket, took a seat at his table, and fixing his 


A Secret Despatch 


178 

eyes upon the man who had served him with wine 
the night before, said, with a sigh — 

“Well, Filippo. A crisis appears imminent.” 

“You have heard from Rome?” Malvano exclaimed 
quickly. “I met Varesi, the messenger, in the hall.” 

“Yes,” his Excellency said, “Eve received certain 
instructions from the Minister, but it is impossible to 
act upon them.” 

_ “Why?” 

“For the prestige of Italy, for our own reputations, 
for the personal safety of the one to whom we owe 
our knowledge, it is impossible to act,” the Count 
answered gravely. “My hands are tied absolutely.” * 

“And you will stand by and see murder committed 
without seeking to bring pressure to bear against 
those who seek our ruin? This is not like you, 
Castellani.” 

“No, Filippo,” the other said, in a tone of confi- 
dence quite unusual to him, for he was a stern, rather 
harsh, diplomat, who never allowed any personal 
interest to interfere with his duties as Ambasssador. 
“Not a word of reproach from you, of all men. You 
alone know that I have secretly done my best in this 
affair ; that I have more than once risked my appoint- 
ment in order to successfully accomplish the work 
which you and I have in hand.” 

“And I, too, have done my utmost,” Malvano 
observed. “Up to the present, however, our enemies , 
have been far too wary to be caught napping.” 

“Yes,” the Ambassador said. “In this matter I 
have relied absolutely upon your patriotism. Like 
myself, you have run great risks ; but I fear that all 
is to no purpose.” 

“Why?” 

“Because we have not yet fathomed the mystery of 
the death of the girl Vittorina Rinaldo. If we could 
do that it would give us a clue to the whole affair.” 

“Exactly,” Malvano answered. “In that matter 


A Secret Despatch 


179 


we are no nearer the truth than we were on the first 
day we commenced our investigation. And why? 
Because of one thing — we fear ‘La Gemma/ ” 

“Where is she now?” 

“Ah ! Unfortunately she quarrelled with young 
Armytage, left the Hotel Victoria suddenly, and — 

“And her whereabouts are unknown !” his Ex- 
cellency gasped. “Dio mio !” he cried. “Then she 
may actually have gone back to Italy and betrayed 
everything !” 

“I think that very probable,” Malvano said gravely. 
“For the past fortnight I’ve been daily at the Bon- 
ciani, and have kept my ears open. There is some- 
thing secret in progress.” 

“What’s its nature?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Then you ought to know,” his Excellency cried 
petulantly. “You must find out. Remember, you 
are the secret agent of this Embassy, and it is your 
duty to keep me well informed.” 

Malvano smiled. The expression upon his round 
ruddy face at that moment was the same as when, on 
the night Romanelli dined with him at Lyddington, 
he had urged his young friend to travel to Livorno, 
and make a declaration of love to the unfortunate 
Vittorina. It was a covert glance of cunning and 
double dealing. 

“I always report to you all I know,” he answered. 

“Yes, yes,” his Excellency said hastily, in a more 
conciliatory tone. “I withdraw those words, Filippo. 
Forgive me, because to-day I’m much worried over 
a matter of delicate diplomacy. In this affair our 
interests are entirely mutual. You and I love our 
country, our beloved Italia, and have taken an oath to 
our Sovereign to act always in his interests. It 
therefore now becomes our duty to elucidate this 
mystery. In you Italy has a fearless man of marvel- 
lous resource and activity — a man who has, in the 


i8o A Secret Despatch 

past, obtained knowledge of secrets in a manner 
which has almot passed credence. Surely you will 
not desert us now and relinquish all hope of obtaining 
'the key to this extraordinary enigma. What have 
you heard at Lady Marshfield's ?" 

“I sent in my daily report this morning/' the 
Doctor answered rather coldly. “You have, I suppose, 
read it?” 

“I have," his Excellency said, leaning both his 
arms upon the table. “I cannot, however, believe 
that your surmise has any foundation. It's really too 
extraordinary." 

“Why?" 

“Such a thing seems not only improbable but ab- 
solutely impossible," the Count replied. 

There was a pause, brief and painful. The men 
looked at one another deeply in earnest. At last 
Malvano spoke. 

“I know well the conflicting interests in this matter. 
If we do our best for Italy, we do the worst for our- 
selves — eh ?" 

The Ambassador nodded. “My political enemies in 
Rome have, I fear, ingeniously plotted my downfall," 
the Count replied in a low tone, as he pressed the 
other's hand. “A single spark is only required to 
fire the mine. Then the Ministry will be overthrown, 
and the country must inevitably fall into the hand 
of the Socialists. Look what they have already done 
in Venice and in Milan. At the latter city they've 
closed La Scala, one of the finest theatres in the 
world ; they've dissolved the dancing-school, and 
have done their worst in every direction. Venice has 
been revolutionized, and now at every local election 
one reads, written with black paint upon the walls, 
'Down with the King and the robbers! Long live 
the Revolution !' I'm a staunch supporter of law and 
order, a firm upholder of country and of King, there- 
fore my days of office are numbered." 


A Secret Despatch 


1S1 


"Not if we successfully solve this enigma/’ 

"Why? By doing so I shall defeat the plots of my 
enemies, and thus embitter them against me far more 
than before.” 

"You fear La Gemma?” 

His Excellency nodded. 

"Why?” 

"She knows too much.” 

"So did Vittorina. She was silenced.” 

"What do you mean, Malvano?” the Ambassador 
cried, pale and agitated. "That she should share the 
same fate?” 

"No,” the other answered gravely. "As far as I 
can see no life need be taken if we act with cunning 
and discretion. Can you trust me ?” 

"I do so implicitly,” his Excellency answered, seeing 
that the secret agent was now entirely in earnest. 
"More than once you have obtained knowledge by 
means little short of miraculous.” 

"Briefly, I’m an excellent spy — eh?” the Doctor 
laughed. "Well, I didn’t spend ten years at the 
Questura in Firenze, and practise as a doctor at the 
same time without obtaining a little wholesome 
experience. If you’ll give this affair entirely into my 
hands, I’ll promise to do my level best, and to assist 
you out of your dilemma. Your position at this 
moment is, I know, one of the most extreme peril; 
but by playing a desperate game we may succeed in 
discovering what is necessary, thereby placing our- 
selves and our country in a position of absolute 
security.” 

"You are an extremely good friend, Filippo,” the 
Count answered quickly. "In this country, sur- 
rounded as I am by traitors and spies, you are the 
only one in whom I can absolutely trust — except 
Garmenilla.” 

"Your daughter must know nothing,” the Doctor 
exclaimed quickly. "This is no woman’s affair. If 


A Secret Despatch 


182 

life must be sacrificed, then she might inadverdently 
expose us — women are such strange creatures, you 
know.” 

“Whose life, then, do you fear may be taken?” his 
Excellency eagerly asked. 

The Doctor raised his shoulders with a gesture 
expressive of profound ignorance. 

“Not Gemma’s?” 

“Why not Gemma’s?” Malvano inquired, in an 
intense voice. “In this affair we must speak plainly. 
Is she not your enemy ?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Then, if a life must be taken, why not hers ?” 

There was a silence, broken only by the low rumble 
of carriages and cabs outside. 

“No,” his Excellency answered. “Before I give 
you perfect freedom in this matter you shall promise 
me that she shall be spared. I have reasons — strong 
ones.” 

“Certainly, if you desire it,” the secret agent replied. 
The thought at that moment flashed across his mind 
that, if for the preservation of their secret her lips 
must necessarily be closed, there were others beside 
himself who would compass her death. The life of a 
man or woman can always be taken for a sovereign 
in London, if one knows where to look for men ready 
to accomplish such work. 

“Then you give me your promise?” the Count asked 
eagerly. 

“On one condition only,” Malvano replied in a firm 
voice, while his eyes fixed themselves upon those of 
the Ambassador. 

“What is your condition ?” his Excellency inquired. 

“There must be no secret between you and me, 
for in order to successfully accomplish this stroke of 
diplomacy we must act deliberately, with forethought, 
and yet boldly face the facts, risking everything — 
even our lives,” he answered. Then, gazing straight 


A Secret Despatch 183 

into the other's face, he added, "I shall not act unless 
you allow me to read the despatch you received to-day 
from Rome." 

The Ambassador's brows instantly contracted, and 
he held his breath. For the first time, he became 
seized with a suspicion that this man, whose deep 
cunning as a secret agent was almost miraculous, was 
now playing him false. 

“No,” he answered, “that is impossible. My oath 
to the King prevents me showing any one a despatch 
marked as confidential.” 

“Then your oath to the King prevents you from 
acting in the interests of Italy and the Crown; it 
prevents me from forging a weapon wherewith to 
fight the enemies of our beloved country.” 

“The despatch is entirely of a private character, 
and concerns myself alone,” his Excellency protested. 

“In other words, you can’t trust me — eh?” the 
Doctor said, with a hard lock of dissatisfaction. “I 
therefore refuse to act further in this affair, and shall 
leave you to do as you think fit. I must be in pos- 
session of all the known facts before I embark upon 
the perilous course before us; and as you decline 
absolutely, I am not prepared to take any steps in 
the dark. The risks are far too great.” 

The Ambassador was silent for a few moments, his 
eyes riveted upon those of the secret agent. Then, 
in a deep, intense voice, he said — 

“Malvano I dare not show you that despatch.” 


CHAPTER XX 

“the gobbo” 

Saturday night in South London is a particularly 
busy time for the wives of the working classes. The 
chief thoroughfares in that great district lying between 
Waterloo Bridge and Camberwell Green are rendered 
bright by the flare of the naphtha-lamps of hoarse- 
voiced costermongers, whose strident cries call 
attention to their rather unwholesome-looking wares, 
and the crowds of honest housewives with ponderous 
baskets on their arms are marketing in couples and 
threes, taking their weekly outing, which is never to 
be missed. In the Walworth Road on a Saturday 
evening one can perhaps obtain a better glimpse of 
London lower-class life than in any other thorough- 
fare. The great broad road extending from that 
junction of thoroughfares, the Elephant and Castle, 
straight away to the sight of old Camberwell Gate, 
and thence to the once rural but now sadly dete- 
riorated Camberwell Green, is ablaze with gas and 
petroleum, and agog with movement. The honest, 
hard-working costermongers, with their barrows 
drawn into the gutters, vie with the shops in prices 
and quality ; hawkers of all sorts importune passers-by 
on the congested pavements ; the hatless and oleagi- 
nous butchers implore the crov/d to “Buy, buy, 
buy,” and the whole thoroughfare presents a scene 
184 


The Gobbo ” 


185 

of animation unequalled in the whole metropolis — a 
striking panorama of poverty, pinched faces, shabby 
clothes, and enforced economy. The district between 
the “Elephant” and Camberwell Green has fallen 
upon evil days. Those who knew the Walworth 
Road twenty years ago, and know it now, will have 
marked its decadence with regret ; how the lower 
life of East Street, known locally as Eas’ Lane, has 
overflowed ; how fine old houses, once tenanted by 
merchants and people of independent means, are now 
let out in tenements; how model “flats” have reared 
their ugly heads; how the jerry-builder has swallowed 
up Walworth Common, across which Dickens once 
loved to wander ; how all has changed, and Walworth 
has become the Whitechapel of the South. 

Life in Walworth is the lower life of modern 
Cockneydom. There are streets in the district which, 
highly respectable thoroughfares twenty years ago, 
now harbour some of the worst characters in London ; 
streets which, although a stone's throw from the 
noisy, squalid bustle of the Walworth Road, a police- 
man hardly cares to venture down without a com- 
panion; sunless streets where poverty and crime are 
hand in hand, where filth has bred disease, and where 
stunted, pale-faced children wallow in the gutter 
mire. The wreckage of London life now no longer 
drifts towards the east, as it used to do, but crosses 
the Thames and, after struggling in Lambeth, is 
swallowed in the debasing vortex of wretched, won- 
derful Walworth. 

Those who pass up the great broad thoroughfare 
from Camberwell citywards see little of Walworth 
life. Only when one turns into one or other of its 
hundred side-streets, which spread out like arms 
toward the Kennington or Kent Roads, can one 
observe how the poor exist. Among these many 
streets, one . which has perhaps not deteriorated to 
such an extent as its neighbours, is the Boyson R ; oad, 


“ The Gobbo 


i 86 

The long thoroughfare of smoke-begrimed, jerry-built 
houses of monotonous exactness in architecture, two 
stories, and deep areas, is indeed a very depressing 
place of residence; but there is not a shop in the 
whole of it, and it is therefore quiet and secluded 
from the eternal turmoil of Camberwell Gate. 

Halfway down this street, in one of the drab, 
mournful-looking houses, lived a man and his wife 
who held themselves aloof from all their neighbors. 
The man was an Italian, whose vocation was that of 
waiter in a restaurant in Moorgate Street, and he had 
taken up his residence in Boyson Road only a few 
months before. His name was Lionello Nenci, the 
man who had earned such an unenviable reputation 
among the hucksters' shops in Hammersmith, and 
whom Gemma, on her arrival in London, had tried 
vainly to find. 

An air of poverty pervaded the interior of the 
house. The hall floor was devoid of any covering 
save for a sack flung down in place of a mat; the 
sitting-room was furnished in the cheapest manner 
possible; and, by the hollow sound which rang 
through the place, it was apparent that few of the 
other ten or twelve rooms contained any furniture 
at all. 

Before the fire in the rusted grate of the sitting- 
room, on this cold, damp Saturday night early in 
December, Nenci himself, a dark-faced, surly-looking 
man with scrubby black beard, aged about thirty- 
five, was seated, smoking a cheap cigar, while near 
him was a younger man, ugly, hump-backed, pale- 
faced, also an Italian. They were speaking in Tuscan. 

“Yes,” Nenci said. “I had to clear out of Hammer- 
smith suddenly and come down here, because I 
thought the Embassy knew too much. She only dis- 
covered me a fortnight ago.” 

“And she is actually living here?” 

“Certainly. This house is the safest place. She 


“ The Goeeo ” 187 

lies quite low, and never goes out. Here she 
comes.” 

At that moment the door opened, and Gemma 
entered. She was dressed in shabby black; her fair 
hair was twisted carelessly, and her small white hands 
bore no rings, yet, even slatternly and unkempt, she 
looked strikingly beautiful. 

“So you are hiding with us ?” the hump-backed man 
exclaimed, after he had greeted her. 

“Yes,” she laughed. 

“Where is your lover, Armytage ?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. “He may be abroad 
again, for all I know. I’ve neither seen nor heard 
from him since we parted nearly a month ago,” she 
said, drawing a chair close to the fire and seating 
herself, her feet placed coquettishly on the rusted 
fender. 

“He knows nothing, I suppose?” Nenci growled, 
still smoking. 

“Not a word. I’m not a fool, even though I may 
be in love.” 

Both men laughed. They knew well the character 
of this beautiful woman before them, and placed the 
most implicit confidence in her. 

“You really love him — eh?” Nenci inquired. 

“I’ve already told you so a dozen times,” she 
answered impatiently. 

“But you won't desert us?” the younger man — 
whom they addressed as “The Gobbo,” Italian for 
hunchback — said earnestly. 

“I am still with you,” she answered. “It is impos- 
sible for me to serve two masters. What time is the 
consultation to-night ?” 

“At ten,” answered Nenci, glancing up at the cheap 
metal timepiece on the mantel. “Arnoldo should be 
here in five minutes.” 

The door again opened, and Nenci’s wife, a dark- 
haired Tuscan woman of about thirty, entered. The 


1 38 


“ The Gobbo ” 


nasal twang in her speech stamped her at once as 
Livornese. She was good-looking, and, although ill- 
dressed, her drab skirt hung well, and her carriage 
had all the grace and suppleness of the South. For 
a moment she stood chatting to her husband, her 
visitor, and their companion, then turning down the 
smoking lamp, placed several chairs around the plain 
deal-topped table. 

“Gemma hasn’t yet got used to London,” she 
laughed, as she busied herself preparing for the mys- 
terious consultation which had been arranged. “She 
pines for her lover, and thinks this place a trifle poor 
after the big hotel at Charing Cross.” 

“No, no,” Gemma protested. “I don’t complain. 
I’m quite safe here. And I can wait.” 

“For your lover?” the Gobbo laughed, in a dry, 
supercilious tone. “It is a new sensation for you to 
love. L’amore e la gioia, il reposo la felicita — eh?” 

Her clear eyes flashed upon him for an instant, but 
she did not reply. His words cut her to the quick. 
In that instant she thought of the man she adored, 
the man who was held aloof from her by reason of her 
secret. 

Presently, after some further conversation, the door- 
bell rang, and Nenci’s wife, who promptly answered 
the summons, admitted two well-dressed men, Roma- 
nelli and Malvano. 

The appearance of the latter was the signal for 
congratulations, Gemma alone holding aloof from 
them. She exchanged a glance with the Doctor, but ! 
he in an instant noticed its swift maliciousness, and 
remained silent. 

After some conventional chatter, in which the 
Gobbo cracked many grim jokes, all six took seats 
around the table. Nenci had previously assured him- 
self that the shutters were closed, and that the doors 
both back and front were securely barred, when 
Malvano was the first to speak, 


“The Gobbo” 


189 


“There are two of us absent/’ he observed. “I 
received a telegram from one an hour ago. He is 
in Berlin, and could not be back in time. He 
apologizes.” 

“It is accepted,” they all exclaimed. 

“And the other cannot come for reasons you all 
know.” 

Then Nenci, a stern, striking figure, rather wild- 
looking, with his black, bushy hair slightly curled, 
bent forward earnestly, and said — 

“Since last we held a consultation in Livorno 
some months ago, much has occurred, and it is neces- 
sary for us once again to review the situation. Most 
of us have had severe trials ; more than one has fallen 
beneath the vengeance of our enemies ; and more than 
one is now in penal servitude on Gorgona, that rocky 
island which lies within sight of the land we all of us 
love. Well, our ranks are thinner, indeed. Of our 
twenty-one brothers and sisters who met for the first 
time in Livorno three years ago only eight now 
remain. Yet we may accomplish much, for not one 
of us knows fear; all have been already tried and 
found staunch and true.” 

“Are you sure there is no traitor among us?” 
Gemma asked, in a clear and intense voice, her pointed 
chin resting upon her white palm as she listened to his 
speech. 

“Whom do you suspect?” Nenci demanded, darting 
a quick look at her. 

“I suspect no one,” she answered. “But in this 
desperate crisis we must, if we would successfully ac- 
complish our object, have perfect faith in one another.” 

“So we have,” Malvano said. “Here in London we 
are in absolute security. We have sacrificed enough, 
Heaven knows! Thirteen of us are already either in 
prison, or dead.” 

Gemma sighed. She herself had been compelled to 
sacrifice a man’s passionate love, her own happipess 


190 “The Gobbo” 

and all that made life worth living, because of her 
connection with this mysterious band which had its 
headquarters among the working class in London, and 
whose ramifications were felt in every part of Italy. 
She lifted her beautiful face once again. She was 
pale and desperate. 

“Thirteen is an unlucky number/’ remarked the 
Gobbo, grimly. 

“For the dead, yes. But eight of us are still 
living,” Malvano said. 

“By the holy Virgin ! it’s a desperate game we are 
playing,” Nenci’s wife exclaimed. 

“Shut your mouth,” growled her husband, roughly. 
“When your opinion is required, we’ll ask for it.” 

She was a slim, fragile woman, with a pale face full 
of romance, black eyes that flashed like gems, and a 
profusion of dark, frizzy hair, worn with those three 
thin spiral curls falling over the brow, in the manner 
of all the Livornesi. Even though she existed in 
squalid Walworth, she still preserved in the mode of 
dressing her hair the fashion she had been used to 
since a child. In that drab, mournful street, she sighed 
often for her own home in gay, happy, far-off Livorno, 
with its great Piazza, where she loved to gossip; its 
fine old cathedral, where she had so often knelt to the 
Madonna ; its leafy Passeggio where, with her friends, 
she would stroll and watch the summer sun sinking 
into the Mediterranean behind the grey distant 
islands. When her husband spoke thus roughly she 
exchanged glances across the table with Gemma, and 
her dark, sad eyes became filled with tears. 

“No,” protested Malvano, quickly, “that’s scarcely 
the language to use towards one who has risked all 
that your wife has risked. I entirely agree with her 
that the game’s desperate enough. We must allow 
no discord.” 

“Exactly,” Nenci admitted. “The reason why I 
have summoned you here is because the time is past 


“The Gobbo” 


191 

for mere words. We must now act swiftly, and with 
precision. There is only one person we have to fear.” 

“What is his name?” they all cried, almost with 
one accord. 

“The man whom Gemma loves — Charles Army- 
ta ge,” the black-haired man answered, his eyes still 
fixed maliciously upon the woman before him. 

In an instant Gemma sprang up, her tiny hands 
clenched, an unnatural fire in her eyes. 

“You would denounce him ! ” she cried wildly. 
“You, who have held me bound and silent for so 
long, now seek to destroy the one single hope to 
which I cling; to snatch from me for ever all chance 
of peace and happiness !” 

The eyes of the five persons at the table were upon 
her as she, strikingly beautiful, stood erect and stat- 
uesque before them. They all saw how deeply in ear- 
nest and how desperate she was. 

But Nenci laughed. The sound of his harsh voice 
stung her. She turned upon him fiercely, with a 
dangerous glint in her clear blue eyes, a look that 
none of that assembly had ever before witnessed. 

“In the past,” she said, “I have served you. I 
have been your catspaw. I have risked love, life, 
everything, for the one object so near my heart: the 
desire for vengeance complete and terrible. Because 
of my association with you” — and she gazed around at 
them as she spoke — “I have been debarred marriage 
with the man I love. In order that he should leave 
me, that his daily presence should no longer fill me 
with regret and vain longing for happiness, I was 
compelled to resort to self-accusation, and to denounce 
myself as an adventuress.” 

“Then you actually spoke the truth for once in 
your life!” Nenci observed superciliously, a fierce 
expression in his black eyes. 

“Enough !” Malvano protested. “We didn't come 
here to discuss Gemma's love affairs. 


192 


“Ti-ie Gobbo” 


“But this man, who for the last three years has 
sought my ruin, has made a false denunciation against 
the young Englishman. I know only too well what 
passes in his mind. He declares to you that the only 
person we need fear is Charles Armytage, and the 
natural conclusion occurs that he must be silenced. 
I know full well that at this moment our position 
is one of desperation. Well, you know my past full 
well, each one of you, and have, I think, recognized 
that I’m not a woman to be trifled with. You may 
stir up the past and cast its mud into my face. Good ! 
But, however wrongly I’ve acted, it is because this 
man has held me within his merciless grip, and I 
have been compelled to do his bidding blindly, 
without daring to protest. You may tell me that 
I am an adventuress,” she cried vehemently; “that 
my reputation is evil and unenviable ; that my friends 
in Italian society have cast me adrift because of the 
libellous stories you have so ingeniously circulated 
about me; but I tell you that I love Charles Army- 
tage, and I swear on the tomb of my dead mother 
he shall never suffer because of his true, honest love 
fof me.” 

She had used the oath which the Italian always 
holds most sacred, and then a dead silence followed. 
Except the dark wild-looking visage of Nenci, every 
face betrayed surprise at this fierce and unexpected 
outburst. 

But Nenci again laughed, stroking his scrubby 
beard with his thin sallow hand. 

“I suppose you wish to desert us, eh?” he asked 
meaningly. 

“While you keep faith with me I am, against my 
will, still your tool. Break faith with me, and the 
bond which has held me to you will at once be 
severed.” Her mouth twitched, her hands trembled. 

“How?” inquired Malvano, seriously; for he saw 
that at this crisis-time Gemma held their future in her 


“The Gobbo” 193 

hands. Nenci's wild words had, alas ! been ill-timed, 
and could not now be retracted. 

“Simply this,” she answered. “I love; for the first 
time in my life, honestly and passionately. Through 
my association with you, my life is wrecked, and my 
lover lost to me. Yet I still have hope; and if you 
destroy that hope, then all desire for life will leave me. 
I care absolutely nothing for the future.” 

“Well ?” the Doctor observed mechanically. 

“Cannot you understand?” she cried, turning upon 
him fiercely. “This man, Lionello, has suggested that 
my lover’s life should be taken; that he should be 
silenced merely because he fears that my love may lead 
me to desert you, or turn traitor. I know well how 
easily such suggestions can be carried out; but re- 
member, if a hand is lifted against him it is to me, the 
woman who loves him, that you shall answer; to me 
you shall beg for mercy, and, by the Virgin, I will 
give you none!” And her panting breast heaved 
and fell violently as she clutched the back of her chair 
for support. 

For a few minutes there was again silence, deep and 
complete. Then Nenci laughed the same harsh, super- 
cilious laugh as before. 

“Bah!” he cried, with curling lip. “Your foolish 
infatuation is of no account to us. Your lover holds 
knowledge which can ruin us. He must, therefore, be 
silenced!” Then, glancing swiftly around the table 
with his black eyes, he asked, “Is that agreed?” 

With one accord there was a bold, clear response. 
All gave an answer in the affirmative. 


CHAPTER XXL 


!AT LYDDINGTON 

Outside it was a dry, crisp, frosty night, but in Doctor 
Malvano’s drawing-room at Lyddington a great wood 
fire threw forth a welcome glow, the skins spread upon 
the floor were soft and warm, and the fine, old-fash- 
ioned room, furnished with that taste and elegance 
which a doctor of independent means could afford, was 
extremely comfortable and cosy. “Ben,” the Doctor’s 
faithful old black dog, lay stretched lazily before the 
fire, a pet cat had curled itself in the easiest of the 
easy-chairs, and with her white fingers rambling over 
the keys of the grand piano sat a slim, graceful woman. 
It was Gemma. 

* With Mrs. Nenci as companion, she had been visiting 
at Lyddington for about a fortnight, and, truth to tell, 
found life in that rural village much more pleasant 
than in the unwholesome side street off the Walworth 
Road. They had both left Boyson Road suddenly 
late one night, after receiving a note from Nenci, who 
had been absent a couple of days. This note was one 
of warning, telling them to fly, and giving them direc- 
tions to go straight to Lyddington. This they had 
done, receiving a cordial welcome from the Doctor, 
who had apparently received word by telegraph, and 
understood the situation perfectly. So they had instal- 
led themselves in the Doctor’s house, and led a quiet, 
194 


At Lyddington 


195 


tranquil life of severe respectability. Gemma dressed 
well, as befitted the Doctor’s visitor, for she had re- 
ceived one of her trunks which, after leaving the Hotel 
Victoria, she had deposited in the cloak-room at 
Charing Cross Station, and her costumes were always 
tasteful and elegant. She had obtained a cycle from 
Uppingham, and the weather being dry and frosty, she 
rode daily alone over the hilly Rutlandshire roads, to 
old-world Gretton, to long, straggling Rockingham, 
with its castle high up among the leafless trees, to 
Seaton Station, or even as far afield as the tiny hamlet 
of Blatherwycke. The honest country folk looked 
askance at her, be it said, for her natural chic she 
could not suppress, and her cycling skirt was just a 
trifle too short, when judged from an English stand- 
point. Her dress was dark-blue serge, confined at the 
waist by a narrow, white silk ribbon, its smartness 
having been much admired when she had spun along 
the level roads of the Cascine. But English and Italian 
ideas differ very considerably, and she was often sur- 
prised when the country people stood and gaped at 
her. Yet it was only natural. When she dismounted 
she could only speak half a dozen words of English, 
and Rutland folk are always suspicious of the foreigner 
— especially a woman. 

As she sat at the piano on this chilly night, she 
looked eminently beautiful in a loose, rich tea-gown 
of sage-green plush, with front of pale pink silk, a 
gown of striking magnificence, with its heavy silver 
belt glittering beneath the shaded lamplight. It was 
made in a style which no English dressmaker could 
accomplish, and fastened at the throat by a quaint 
brooch consisting of three tiny golden playing-cards, 
set with diamonds and rubies, and fastened together by 
a pearl-headed pin, a charming little phantasy. The 
pink silk, in combination with the sombre green, set 
off her fair beauty admirably, yet her face was a trifle 
wan as she mechanically fingered the keys with all the 


196 


At Lyddington 


suppleness and rapidity of a good player. But she was 
Tuscan, and the love of music was in her inborn. In 
her own far-off country one could hear the finest opera 
for sixpence, and there was scarcely any household 
that did not possess its mandoline, and whose members 
did not chant those old canzonette amorose. Music 
is part of the Italian's life. 

She stopped at last, slowly glancing around the 
handsome room, and drawing a heavy sigh. At that 
moment a sense of utter loneliness oppressed her. Her 
companion, Mrs. Nenci, had retired to bed half an hour 
before, and the Doctor was still in his study, where 
he usually spent the greater part of his time. He was 
often locked in alone for hours together, and was care- 
ful never to allow any one to enter on any pretext. 
She had, indeed, never seen the interior of Malvano’s 
den, and was often seized with curiosity to know how 
he spent his time there through so many hours. As 
she sat silent, she pondered, as she ever did, over her 
lost lover, and wondered if he were still in England, or 
if, weary and despairing, he had left for the Continent 
again. 

“He has misjudged me,” she murmured — “cruelly 
misjudged me.” 

Her fathomless blue eyes glistened with tears, as, 
turning again to the instrument, she commenced to 
play and sing, in a soft, sweet contralto, the old Tuscan 
love-song, “Ah ! non mi amava ;” the song sung by the 
contadinelle in the vineyards and the maize-fields, 
where the green lizards dart across the sun-baked 
stones — where life is without a care, so long as one has 
a handful of baked chestnuts, or a plate of polenta di 
castagne — where the air is sweet and balmy and the 
very atmosphere breathes of love. 

“E mi diceva che avria sfidato, 

Per ottenermi tutto il creato ; 

Che nel mio sguardo. nel mio sorriso 
Stavan le gioie del Paradiso. 


At Lyddington 


197 . 


E mentre al core cosi parlava, 

Ah ! non mi amava ! no, non mi amava ! 

“Tu sei, diceva, Tangelo mio : 

Tu sei la Stella d’ogni desio: 

II sol mio bene sei che m’avanza; 

Tu de’ miei giorni se’ la speranza. 

Fin le sue pene mi raccontava, 

Ah ! non mi amava ! no, non mi amava !” 

Slowly, in a voice full of emotion, she sang the old 
song she had heard so many times when a child, until 
its sad, serious air trembled through the room. 

Behind her were two long windows, which, opening 
upon the lawn, were now heavily curtained to keep 
out the icy draughts. Blasts of cold air seemed to 
penetrate to every corner of that high-up house, ex- 
posed as it was to the chill winds sweeping across the 
hills. A she was singing, one of the maids entered 
with her candle, and placing it upon the table, wished 
her good night. 

“Good night !” she answered in her pretty broken 
English ; and, when the girl had gone, went on play- 
ing, but very softly, so as not to disturb the household. 
Her voice, full of emotion, had repeated the final 
words of that passionate verse — 

“Non aveva core che per amarmi 
Con i suoi detti ei m’ingannava, 

Ah ! non mi amava ! no, non mi amava !” 

when the curtains before one of the windows behind 
her suddenly stirred, and an eager face peered through 
between them. The slight sound attracted her, and 
she turned quickly with a low exclamation of fear. 
Next instant, however, she sprang up from the piano 
with a glad cry, for the man who had thus secretly 
entered was none other than Charles Armytage. 

“You, Nino!” she gasped, pale and trembling, 
holding aloof from him in the first moments of her 
surprise. 


At Lyddington 


198 

“Yes,” he replied in a low, intense tone, standing 
before her in hat and overcoat. “I came here to see 
the Doctor, but hearing your well-remembered voice 
outside, and finding the window unfastened, came in. 
You — you do not welcome me,” he added with dis- 
appointment. “Why are you here ?” 

“Welcome you !” she echoed. “You, who are in 
my thoughts every day, every hour, every moment; 
you who, by leaving me, have crushed all hope, all 
life from me, Nino ! Ah ! no ; I — I welcome you. 
But forgive me ; I never expected that we should meet 
in this house, of all places.” 

“Why?” 

She hesitated. Her fingers twitched nervously. 

“Because — well, because you ought not to come 
here,” she answered ambiguously. She remembered 
Nenci’s covert threat, and knew well what risks her 
lover ran. He was in deadly peril, and only she her- 
self could shield him. 

“I don't understand you,” he exclaimed. “I have 
for the past month searched everywhere for you. 
You left the hotel and disappeared; I have made 
inquiries in Livorno and in Florence, believing you 
had returned to Italy, and here to-night, as I passed 
across the lawn, I heard your voice, and have now 
found you.” , 

“Why?” she inquired, her trembling hand still upon 
the piano. “Is not all our love now of the past ? I am 
unworthy of you, Nino, and I told you so honestly. 
I could not deceive you further.” 

“Heaven knows !” he cried, “you deceived me 
enough. You have never even told me your real 
name.” 

She looked at him with an expression of fea'r in her 
eyes. 

“Ah!” she cried. “You know the truth, Nino. I 

see by your face !” 

“I know that you, whom I have known as 


At Lyddington 199 

Gemma Fanetti, are none other than the Contessa 
Funaro !” 

Her breast heaved and fell quickly, and she hung 
her head. 

“Well?” 

He moved towards her, his hands still in the 
pockets of his heavy tweed overcoat. 

“Well,” he repeated, “and what excuse have you 
for so deceiving me ?” 

“None,” she answered in her soft Tuscan, her 
eyes still downcast. “I loved you, Nino, and I 

feared ” , She hesitated, without finishing the 

sentence. 

“You feared to tell me the truth, even though you 
well knew that I was foolishly infatuated; that I 
was a love-blind idiot? No; I don’t believe you,” 
he cried fiercely. “You had some further, some 
deeper motive.” 

She was silent. Her nervous fingers twitched them- 
selves in the lace of her gown, and she grew pallid 
and haggard. 

“I now know who you are; how grossly you 
have deceived me, and how ingeniously I have been 
tricked,' ” he cried bitterly, speaking Italian with 
difficulty. “You whom I believed honest and loving, 
I have found to be only an adventuress, a woman 
whose notoriety has spread from Como to Messina.” 

“Yes,” she cried hoarsely, “yes, Nino, I am an 
adventuress. Now that my enemies have exposed 
me, concealment is no longer possible. I deceived 
you, but with an honest purpose in view* My name, 
I well know, is synonymous with all that is vicious. 
I am known as The Funaro — the extravagant woman 
whose lovers are legion, and of whom stories of reck- 
less waste and ingenious fraud are told by the jeunesse 
doree in every city in Italy. Ask of any of the smart 
young men who drink at the Gambrinus at Milan, at 
Genoa, at Rome, or at Florence, and they will relate 


200 


At Lyddington 


stories by the hour of my wild, adventurous life, of 
my loves and my hatreds, of my gaiety and my 
sorrow. Yes, I, alas! know it all. I have the repu- 
tation of being the gayest woman in all gay Italy; 
and yet — and yet,” she added in a soft voice, “I love 
you, Nino.” 

“No !” he cried, drawing from her with repugnance, 
as if in fear that her hands should touch him; “it 
is not possible that we can exchange words of 
affection after this vile deceit. All is now plain why 
the police of Livorno ordered you to leave the city; 
why Hutchinson, the Consul, urged me to part from 
you ; why, when we drove together in those sun-baked 
streets, every one turned to look at you. They knew 
you!” he cried. “They knew you — and they pitied 
me!” 

She shrank at these cruel, bitter words as if he had 
dealt her a blow. From head to foot she trembled 
as, with an effort, she took a few uneven steps towards 
him. 

“You denounce me!” she cried in a low tone 

“You, the man I love, declare that I am base, vile, 
and heartless. Well, if you wish, I will admit all the 
charges you thus level against me. Only one will I 
refute. You say that I am an adventuress; you imply 
that I have never loved you.” 

“Certainly,” he cried. “I have been your dupe. 
You led me to believe in your innocence, while all 
the time the papers are commenting upon your ad- 
ventures, and printing scandals anent your past. 
Because I did not know your language well, and 
because I seldom read an Italian newspaper, you 
were bold enough to believe that I should remain in 
utter ignorance. But I have discovered the extent 
of your perfidy. I know that, in dealing with 
you, I am dealing with one whose shrewdness and 
cunning are notorious throughout the whole of 
Italy.” 


At Lyddington 


201 


'‘Then you have no further love for me, Nino?” 
she asked blankly, after a brief space. 

“Love! No, I hate you!” he cried. “You led me 
to believe in your uprightness and honesty, yet I 
find that you, of all women in Italy, are the least 
desirable as an acquaintance — the least possible as a 
wife!” 

“You hate me?” she gasped hoarsely. “You — 
Nino! — hate me?” 

“Yes,” he cried, his hands clenched in excitement, 
“I hate you!” 

“Then why have you come here ?” she asked. “Even 
if you had heard my voice, you need not have entered 
this room to taunt me.” 

“I have come to call upon the Doctor,” he answered. 

“Eleven o'clock at night is a curious hour at which 
to call upon a friend,” she observed. “Your business 
with him must be very pressing.” 

“It is — it is,” he answered quickly, striding to and 
fro. “I must see him to-night.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I leave England to-morrow.” 

“You leave England?” she said hoarsely. “You 
intend to leave me here?” 

“Surely you are comfortable enough? Malvano is 
Italian, and, although I was not aware that you were 
acquainted with him, he is nevertheless a very good 
fellow, and no doubt you are happy.” 

“Happy!” she cried. “Happy without you, Nino! 
Ah ! you are too cruel ! If you could but know the 
truth; if you could but know what I have suffered, 
what I am at this moment suffering for your sake, you 
would never treat me thus — never.” 

“Ah! your story is always the same — always,” he 
laughed superciliously. “I know now why you 
would never invite me to your house in Florence. 
You could not well take me to your great palazzo 
without me knowing its name. Again, you lived in 


202 


At Lyddington 


that small flat in the Viale at Livorno instead of at 
your villa at Ardenza, that beautiful house overlook- 
ing the sea, coveted by all the Livornesi." 

“I have a reason for not living there/' she ex- 
claimed, quickly. “I have not entered it now for 
two years. Perhaps I shall never again cross its 
threshold." 

“And it is untenanted ?" 

“Certainly. I do not wish to let it." 

“Why?" 

“It is a caprice of mine," she answered. “To a 
woman of my character caprices are allowed, I sup- 
pose?" Then, after a slight hesitation, she raised her 
fine eyes to his, saying, “Now tell me candidly, Nino, 
why have you come here to-night?" 

“To see the Doctor. I want to consult him." 

“Are you ill?" she asked with some alarm, noticing 
that he was unusually pale. 

“No, I want his advice regarding another matter, a 
matter which concerns myself." As he spoke he kept 
his eyes fixed upon her, and saw how handsome she 
was. In that loose gown of silk and plush, with its 
heavy girdle, she looked, indeed, the notorious 
Countess Funaro about whom he had heard so much 
scandalous gossip. 

Slowly she advanced towards him, her small white 
hands outstretched, her arms half bare, her beautiful 
face upturned to his. Those eyes were so blue and 
clear, and that face so perfect an incarnation of 
purity, that it was hard to believe that she was actu- 
ally the notorious woman who had so scandalized 
Florentine society. He stood before her again, 
fascinated as he always had been in her presence in 
those bygone sunny days in Tuscany, when he had 
basked daily in her smiles and idled lazily beside the 
Mediterranean. 

“Nino," she said, in a soft crooning voice scarcely 
above a whisper — a voice which showed him she was 


At Lyddington 


203 


deeply in earnest — “Nino, if it pleases you to break 
my heart then I will not complain. I know I deserve 
all the terrible punishment I am now enduring, for 
I’ve sinned before heaven and have sinned against 
you, the man who loved me. You cast me aside as a 
worthless woman because of my evil reputation ; you 
credit all the base libellous stories circulated by my 
enemies; you believe that I have toyed with your 
affection and have no real genuine love for you. 
Well, Nino,” she sighed, “let it be so. I know that 
now you are aware of my identity you can never 
believe in my truth and honesty; but I tell you that 
I still love you, even though you may denounce and 
desert me.” 

He turned from her with a gesture of impatience. 

“Tell me, Nino,” she went on eagerly, following 
him and grasping his arm convulsively, “tell me the 
truth. Why are you here to-night?” 

He turned quickly upon her, and made a movement 
to free himself from her grasp. 

“Malvano is Italian,” he answered. “I have come 
to consult him upon a matter in which only an Italian 
can assist me.” 

“I am Italian,” she said quickly. “Will you not 
let me render you at least one service, even if it be 
the last?” She looked earnestly into his face, and 
her soft arms wound themselves around his neck. 

“I have no faith in you,” he answered. “I was a 
fool to enter here, but your voice brought back to me 
so many memories of those days that are dead, and I 
couldn’t resist.” 

“Then you still think of me sometimes, caro,” she 
said, clinging to him. “Your love is not yet 
dead?” 

“It is dead,” he declared, fiercely disengaging him- 
self. “Gemma, whom I knew and loved in Livorno, 
will ever remain a sad sweet memory throughout my 
life; but the wealthy, wanton Contessa Funaro the 


204 


At Lyddington 


woman against whom every finger is pointed in Italy, 

I can never trust, I can never love.” 

She fell back, crushed, humiliated, ashamed. A 
death-like pallor overspread her face, and her eyes 
grew large, dark, and mournful. There are some griefs 
that are too deep, even for tears. 

“You cannot trust me, Nino,” she cried a moment 
later. “But you can nevertheless heed one word 
which I speak in deepest earnest.” 

“Well?” 

“Leave this house. Do not seek this man, Mal- 
vano.” 

“Why?” he inquired, surprised. “He's my friend. 
We have met once or twice since we shot together 
in Berkshire.” 

Again she advanced close to him, so close that he 
felt her breath upon his cheek, and the sweet odour 
of lilac from her chiffons filled his nostrils. 

“If you absolutely refuse to tell me the reason you 
have come here to-night, then I will tell you,” she 
whispered, “You are in fear.” 

“In fear? I don't understand.” 

“You have enemies, and you wish to consult the 
Doctor with regard to them,” she went on boldly. 
Then, in a voice scarcely audible, she added, whisper- 
ing into his ear: “You have received warning.” 

He started suddenly, looking at her dismayed. 

“Who told you? How did you know?” he gasped. 

“I cannot now explain,” she answered breathlessly, 
still holding his arm in convulsive grasp, panting 
as she spoke. “It is sufficient for you to know the * 
intention of your enemies, so that you may be fore- 
warned against them.” 

“Then it is actually true that I'm in personal 
danger!” he cried. “To my knowledge I've never 
done an evil turn to anybody, and this is all a 
puzzling enigma. The letter here” — and he drew from 
his overcoat a note which had been delivered by a 


At Lyddington 


205 


boy-messenger at his chambers in Ebury Street— 'this 
letter is evidently written by an Italian, because of 
the flourish of the capitals; and I came here to-night 
to ask Malvano the best course to pursue. I’m staying 
in the neighbourhood, over at Apethorpe. ,, 

“Then leave at once,” she urged earnestly. “To- 
morrow, get away by the first train to London, 
and thence to the Continent again. Take precau- 
tions that you are not followed. Go to France, to 
Germany, to Spain, anywhere out of reach. Then 
write to me at the Poste Restante, at Charing Cross, 
and I will come to you ?” 

“But why? How do you know all this?” 

“Look at that letter, Nino,” she said in a low, deep 
tone. “Look once again at the handwriting.” 

He opened it beneath the silk-shaded lamp and 
scanned it eagerly. 

“IPs yours,” he gasped, the truth suddenly dawn- 
ing upon him. “You yourself have give me this 
warning !” 

She nodded. 

“Tell me why, quickly,” he cried, placing his hand 
upon her shoulder. “Tell me why?” 

“I warned you, Nino,” she answered, in a soft, 
hoarse voice ; “I warned you because I love you.” 

“But what have I to fear?” he demanded. “If Pm 
threatened I can seek protection of the police. To my 
knowledge I haven’t a single enemy.” 

“We all of us blind ourselves with that consola- 
tion,” she replied. “But listen. Of all men, avoid 
Malvano. Leave this house at once and 'get out of 
England at the earliest moment. Your enemies are 
no ordinary ones; they are desperate, and hold life 
cheap.” 

“But you!” he cried, puzzled. “You are here, 
in the house of this very man against whom you 
warn me !” 

“Ah! do not heed me,” she answered. “Your love 


206 


At Lyddington 


for me is dead. Yet I am still yours, and in this 
matter you must, if you value your safety, trust me.” 

“But Malvano is an excellent fellow,” he protested. 
“I must just wish him good night. What would he 
think if he knew I had been here and had this private 
interview with you?” 

“No, Nino,” she cried, her countenance pale and 
earnest. “You must not! You hear me? You must 
not. If it were known that I had given you warning 
then my position would be one of greater peril than 
it now is.” 

“But surely I need not fear the Doctor? Every 
one about here knows him. He’s the most popular 
man for miles around.” 

“And the most dangerous,” she whispered. “No, 
for my sake, fly, Nino. He may enter this room at 
any moment. I love you, and no harm shall befall 
you if you will obey me. Leave this place at once, 
and promise me not to make any attempt to see 
Malvano.” 

His eyes met hers, and he saw in them a love-light 
that was unmistakable. By her clear open glance 
he became almost convinced that she was speaking 
the truth. Yet he still hesitated. 

“Ah!” she cried, suddenly flinging her arms again 
about his neck. “Go, Nino; you are unsafe here. 
Leave England to-morrow for my sake — for my sake, 
caro. But kiss me once,” she implored in her sweet, 
lisping Italian. “Give me one single kiss before you 
part from me.” 

His brow darkened. He held his breath. 

“No, no,” she cried wildly, divining his disinclina- 
tion, “I am not the Contessa Funaro, now. I am 
Gemma — the woman who loves you, the woman who 
is at this moment risking her life for you. Kiss me. 
Then go. Fly, caro, abroad, and may no harm befall 
you, Nino, my beloved!” Then she raised her beauti- 
ful face to his, 


At Lyddington’ 


207 


His countenace relaxed, he bent swiftly, and their 
lips met in one long, tender, passionate caress. Then, 
urged by her, he wished her a whispered farewell, and 
disappeared through the heavy curtains before the 
window as silently as he had come, while she stood 
panting, breathless, but in an ecstasy of contentment. 
Once again he had pressed her lips and breathed one 
single word of love. 


f 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE UNKNOWN 

In winter the roads in Rutlandshire are none too good 
for cycling. When wet they are too heavy; when 
frosty they are apt to be rutty and dangerous. Once 
or twice Gemma had been out with the two daughters 
of the rector of a neighbouring parish, but as she 
could not understand half a dozen words they said, 
and discovered them to be of that frigid genus 
peculiar to the daughters-of-the-cloth, she preferred 
riding alone. In January the country around Up- 
pingham is bleak, brown, and bare, different indeed 
from winter in her own sunny land, but it was the 
exhilarating sensation of cycling that delighted her, 
and she did not ride for the purpose of seeing the 
district. The hills around Lyddington were poor 
indeed after the wild grandeur of the Lucca Moun- 
tains, or the Apennines, but on bright mornings she 
found her ride very delightful, and always returned 
fresh, rosy, and hungry. 

A fortnight had gone by since the night Charles 
Armytage had visited her, but she had received no 
word from him, because the address she gave was 
at the Poste Restante at Charing Cross and she had 
not been to London. The kiss he had given her 
before parting reassured her, and now, instead of 
being pensive, pale-faced, and wan, she had resumed 


The Unkown 


209 


Something of her old reckless gaiety, and would go 
about the house humming to herself the chorus of 
that gay song, popular at every cafe-concert in Italy. 
“M’abbruscia, m’abbruscia, \ capa, signure,” or jingle 
upon the piano for the amusemnt of the Doctor 
and Mrs. Nenci, “Pennariale,” “La Bicicletta,” “Sig- 
no’, dicite si,” and a host of other equally well-known 
ditties. Both Malvano, who always treated her with 
studied courtesy, and her female companion were 
surprised at her sudden change of manner. Neither, 
however, knew the truth. Armytage had evidently 
succeeded in leaving the house and gaining the road 
without having been seen by the servants. 

The frosty wind was sweeping keen as a knife 
across the uplands one morning as she mounted her 
cycle, and with a laughing farewell to the Doctor, 
who was just ascending into his high trap to visit a 
patient some five miles away in an opposite direction, 
she allowed her machine to run rapidly down the 
hill for nearly a mile without pedalling. The roads 
were hard and rutty, but she cared nothing for that, 
and rode straight as an arrow, taking both hands 
from the handles in order to readjust the pin which 
held her neat little toque. Few women rode better 
than she, and few looked more graceful, or pedalled 
more evenly. In the leafy Cascine at Florence, in 
the Public Gardens at Milan, in the Bois at Paris, 
and along the Viale at Livorno, her riding had been 
many times admired. But here, on these Rutland- 
shire highways there was no crowd of gossiping 
idlers, none to remark her beauty, none to whisper 
strange stories of “the pretty Contessa,” and for the 
first time for months she now felt free from the 
trammels of her past. 

About a mile and a half from Lyddington, she 
turned off suddenly on to a byroad, rutty and ill- 
kept, and, still downhill, rode towards Seaton Station. 
The Doctor expected a small parcel of drugs from 


210 


The Unknown 


London, and, as it could be tied to her handle-bar, 
she had that morning made it the object of her ride. 
Malvano, however, had been compelled to scribble a 
line to the station-master, for, as she could not speak 
English, and the local railway official could not be ex- 
pected to have any knowledge of Tuscan, the note 
would obviate any complications. 

Shortly before leaving the station, the road 
crossed the railway by a level-crossing kept by a lame 
man, one of the company’s servants, who had been in- 
jured years before, and who now led a life of compar- 
ative ease in his snug little cottage beside the line. As 
she approached, she saw that the great gates were 
closed, and, riding up to them, she dismounted and 
called to the cottager for the way to be opened. 

The grey-headed old man appeared at the door in 
his shabby overcoat, shook his head, and cast a glance 
down the line. Then, almost next instant, the Con- 
tinental express from Harwich to Birmigham flew past. 
The gatekeeper drew back one of the levers beside his 
door, entered the house for a moment, then came forth 
with something in his hand. 

“This letter has been left for you, miss,” he said, po- 
litely touching his cap and handing a note to her. “It’s 
been here these four days, and I was told not to send 
it up to the Doctor’s, but to give it to you personally 
next time you passed alone.” 

“Who gave it to you?” she asked quickly, in Italian, 
as she took the letter in one hand, holding her cycle 
with the other. 

But the man, unacquainted with strange languages, 
regarded her rather suspiciously, and answered — 

“I don’t understand French, miss.” 

They both laughed, and from her purse she gave 
the man some coppers. Not until she got to a lonely 
part of the road, on her return journey, did she dis- 
mount to read the secret missive. It consisted of five 
words only, in Italian, scribbled in pencil upon a piece 


The Unknown' 


211 


of that common foreign notepaper, ruled in tiny 
squares. The words were — “Bonciani, Monday, at 
five. Urgent. ,, 

It bore no signature, no date, nothing to give a clue 
whence the mysterious appointment emanated. She 
examined its superscription, but utterly failed to 
recognize the handwriting. 

For a long time she stood beneath the leafless oaks 
with the scrap of paper in her hand, meditating deep- 
ly. It was plain that whoever had summoned her to 
London feared to sign the note lest it should fall into 
other hands; furthermore, the writer evidently knew 
that it was unsafe to send a message through the post 
direct to the Doctor's house. Being unable to speak 
English, she could not ask the railway watchman to 
describe the person who had placed it in his hands. 
She could only act as the unknown writer demanded, 
or, on the other hand, take no notice of the strange 
communication. 

It was not from Charles, for she well knew his bold, 
sprawly hand. This was decidedly the writing of one 
of her compatriots; but as she reflected, she could not 
think of any one who could desire her urgent attend- 
ance at the obscure little restaurant in Regent Street. 
She had often heard of the Bonciani, even while in 
Italy, but had never visited it. Then suddenly the 
sweet, distant sound of church bells, borne to her on 
the frosty wind, sounded so different to that from 
the old sun-blanched campanili of the Tuscan 
churches, and brought to her recollection that the 
day was Sunday, a festa day in her own land, and 
that the appointment with the unknown was on the 
morrow. 

Irresolute and puzzled, she tore up both envelope 
and paper, and cast them to the wind; then, seating 
herself in her saddle, she rode onward up the long in- 
cline which led to Lyddington. 

That afternoon there were two or three callers — the 


212 


The Unknown 


wife and daughter of a retired manufacturer living at 
Laxton and a couple of young men, sons of old Squire 
Gregory, of Apethorpe, who had seen Gemma cycling 
and driving with the Doctor, and who had been struck 
by her extraordinary chic. One of them, the elder, spoke 
Italian a little, and they chatted together in the draw- 
ing-room, after which tea was served. She did not care 
for that beverage, and only drank it because it seemed 
to her the proper thing to do in England. She would 
have much preferred a glass of menta, or one or other 
of those brilliantly coloured syrups so dear to the palate 
of the Italian. 

With that ineffable politeness of his race, Malvano 
entertained his visitors in a manner polished and re- 
fined, while Mrs. Nenci, a rather striking figure in 
black, spoke broken English with them, and did the 
honours of the house. People often called at the Doc- 
tor's in the afternoon, for he was a merry bachelor with 
the reputation of being the most good-hearted, gener- 
ous, easy-going man in the county ; and on this Sunday 
the assembly was quite a pleasant one, the more so to 
Gemma when she found a good-looking young man to 
whom she could chat. 

They were standing together in the deep bay of the 
old-fashioned window, half hidden by the heavy cur- 
tains. The room was filled with the gay chatter of the 
visitors, and he now saw his opportunity to speak to 
her. 

“Signorina,” he said in a low whisper, “ a friend of 
mine is our mutual friend.” 

“I don't understand you?” she inquired, starting in 
surprise, and glancing quickly at him. 

“Charles Armytage,'' young Gregory answered. 
“He was staying with me until about a fortnight ago. 
Then he left suddenly." 

“Well?” 

“He doesn’t dare to write to you here, but has writ- 
ten to me.” 


The Unknown 


213 


'"Where is he?” she inquired eagerly. 

"‘Abroad,” the young man replied hurriedly. “In 
his letter to me yesterday, he asked me to call here at 
once, see you, and tell you that he is in Brussels ; and 
that if you write, address him at the Poste Restante.” 

“He is still there?” she asked. Then a telegram to- 
day — now — would reach him.” 

“Certainly,” her young companion replied. ""He 
says he will send me word the moment he changes his 
address, and asks me to request you to write. He 
says it is unsafe, however, under the circumstances, for 
him to respond to your letter. 

‘"Thank you,” she answered, breathing more freely. 
The knowledge that he had escaped to Brussels, and 
that she could give him further warning, if needed, 
was to her reassuring. “It is extremely kind of you 
to bring me this welcome message. I had no idea that 
you knew Mr. Armytage.’' 

“We were at Eton together,” Gregory answered. 
“Eve known him ever since I can remember. But I 
see my brother is going to drive the Blatherwycke 
parson home, so I must say good-bye; and I hope to 
call again, as soon as I have any further news — if I 
may.” 

She answered him with a glance. Then together 
they returned into the centre of the room, chatting as 
if no confidences had been exchanged, and a moment 
later he took leave of her. 

Next morning, in a dark stuff walking-dress, she 
mounted her cycle, having announced her intention 
to ride over to King’s Cliffe and lunch with some 
friends of Malvano’s who had invited 'her. Instead, 
however, she went to Gretton Station, placed her 
cycle in the cloak-room, and took a first class-ticket 
for London, determined to keep the mysterious 
appointment. It was nearly three o’clock when she 
arrived, and she at once lunched at the railway buffet, 
idled there for half an hour, and then took a cab to 


2T4 


The Unknown 


Regent Street, where she whiled away the time gazing 
into the windows of milliners and dressmakers, 
unaware that a shabby, middle-aged, unimportant- 
looking man was narrowly watching her movements, 
or that this man was Inspector Elmes of Vine Street. 

At last she glanced at her little watch, with its two 
hearts set in diamonds on the back — a beautiful sou- 
venir which her absent lover had given her in the early 
days of their acquaintance — and found it wanted ten 
minutes to five. She had passed the obscure rendez- 
vous, and glanced at its window with the sickly look- 
ing palms and indiarubber plants, the long-necked 
wine-flasks she knew so well, and the two framed 
menus ; therefore, considering it time to enter the place, 
she retraced her steps from Piccadilly Circus, and a 
few minutes later opened the door and walked into the 
long, narrow salon, with its marble-topped tables and 
plush lounges. 

Two or three men, whom she at once recognized as 
compatriots, were sipping coffee and smoking. As she 
passed, they eyed her admiringly ; but without a glance 
at them she walked to the further end, and seating her- 
self at a table on the left, ordered coffee. 

Scarcely had it been brought, when the door again 
opened, and there lounged in leisurely a tall, well-built, 
handsome man in long dark overcoat and brown soft 
felt hat. Without hesitation he walked straight to her 
table, bowed politely, and, with a word of greeting, 
seated himself. Her face went white as the marble be- 
fore her; she held her breath. In that instant she 
recollected it was the day, the hour, and the place 
mentioned in that remarkable letter found upon her 
unfortunate friend Vittorina — that letter which had so 
puzzled and mystified the Ambassador, the police, the 
newspaper reporters, and the British public. 

She had been entrapped. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A RULER OF EUROPE 

“Well?” Gemma exclaimed, quickly recovering her- 
self, and looking keenly into the dark face of the new- 
comer. 

“Well?” he said, imitating with a touch of sarcasm 
the tone in which she had spoken, at the same time 
taking a cigarette from his case and lighting it with a 
vesta from the china stand upon the table. 

“What does this mean?” she inquired in Italian, re- 
garding him with a look which clearly showed that his 
presence was unwelcome. 

“Finish your coffee and ccme out with me. I must 
speak with you. Here it’s too risky. We might be 
overheard. St. James's Park is near, and we can talk 
there without interruption,” he said. Evidently a 
gentleman, aged about fifty-five, with long iron-grey 
side-whiskers and hair slightly blanched. His eyes 
were intelligent and penetrating, his forehead broad 
and open, his chin heavy and decisive, and he was un- 
doubtedly a man of stern will and wide achievements. 
He spoke polished Italian, and his manner was per- 
fect. 

Gemma kept her eyes fixed upon him, fascinated by 
fear. Her gloved hand trembled perceptibly as she 
raised her cup to her lips. 

215 


2l6 


A Ruler of Europe 


“You had no idea that you would meet me — eh?” 
he laughed, speaking in an undertone. “Well, drink 
your coffee, and let us take a cab to the Park.” He 
flung down sixpence to the waiter, and they went out 
together. She walked mechanically into the street 
dumbfounded, stupefied. 

By his side she staggered for a few paces, then 
halting said, in a sudden tone of anger — 

“Leave me ! I refuse to accompany you.” 

Her companion smiled. It was already dark, the 
shop-windows were lit, and the hurrying crowd of 
passers-by did not notice them. 

“You’ll come with me,” the man said, sternly. “I 
want to talk to you seriously, and in privacy. It was 
useless in that place with half-a-dozen people around, 
all with ears open. Besides,” he added, “in a cafe of 
that sort I may be recognized.” Then he hailed a 
passing cab. 

“No, no !” she cried, as it drew up to the kerb. “I 
won’t go — I won’t !” 

“But you shall !” he declared) firmly, taking her 
arm. “You know me well enough to be aware that 
I’m not to be trifled with. Come, you’ll obey me.” 

She hesitated for an instant, gazed blankly around 
her as if seeking some one to protect her, sighed, and 
then slowly ascended into the vehicle. 

“Athenaeum Club,” he shouted to the driver, and 
sprang in beside the trembling woman. It was 
evident from her manner that she held him in repug- 
nance, while he, cool and triumphant, regarded her 
with satisfaction. 

During the drive they exchanged few w T ords. She 
was pensive and sullen, while he addressed her in a 
strangely rough manner for one of such outward 
refinement. They alighted, and descending the steps 
into the Mall at the point where a relic of old-time 
London still remains in the cow-sheds where fresh 
milk can be obtained, crossed the roadway and 


A Ruler of Europe 217 

entered the Park by one of the deserted paths which 
ran down to the ornamental water. 

“You thought to escape me — eh?” her companion 
exclaimed when at last they halted at one of the seats 
near the water. He was well acquainted with that 
quarter of London, for he had served as attache at 
the Court of St. James twenty years ago. 

“I had no object in so doing,” she answered boldly. 
In their drive she had decided upon a definite plan, 
and now spoke fearlessly. 

“Why, then, have you not answered my letters?” 

“I never answer letters that are either reproachful 
or abusive,” she replied, “even though they may be 
from the Marquis Montelupo, His Majesty's Minister 
for Foreign Affairs.” 

“If you had deigned to do so, it would have obviated 
the necessity of me coming from Rome to see you at 
all this personal risk.” 

“It's well that you risk something, as well as 
myself. Eve risked enough, Heaven knows!” she 
answered. 

“And you've found at last a confounded idiot of a 
lover who will prove our ruin.” 

“My love is no concern of yours,” she cried quickly. 
“He may be left entirely out of the question. He 
knows nothing; and further, I've parted from him.” 

“Because he has ascertained who you really are,” 
the great statesman said. 

“For that I have to thank you,” she retorted 
quickly. “If you had been a trifle more considerate 
and had not allowed the police of Livorno to act as 
they did, he would still have been in ignorance.” 

“I acted as I thought fit,” her companion said in an 
authoritative tone, lighting another cigarette from the 
still burning end of the one he had just consumed. 

“You've brought me here to abuse me !” she cried, 
her eyes flashing fiercely upon him. 

“Because you played me false,” he answered 


21 & 


A Ruler of Europe 


bitterly. “You thought it possible to conceal your 
identity, marry this young fool of an Englishman, and 
get away somewhere where you could not be dis- 
covered. For that reason you've played this double 
game. ,, Then he added, meaningly, “It's only what 
I ought to have expected of a woman with such a 
reputation as yours. 

“Charles Armytage is no fool,” she protested. “If 
he found you here, speaking like this to me, he’d 
strangle you.” 

The Marquis, whose dark eyes seemed to flash with 
a fierce light, laughed sarcastically. 

“No doubt by this time he’s heard lots of stories 
concerning you,” he said. “A man of his stamp never 
marries an adventuress.” 

“Adventuress !” she echoed, starting up with 
clenched hands. “You call me an adventuress — you, 
whose past is blacker than my own — you who owe 
to me your present position as Minister!” 

He glanced at her surprised ; he had not been pre- 
pared for this fierce, defiant retort. 

Again he laughed, a laugh low and strangely 
hollow. 

“You forget,” he said, “that a word from me would 
result in your arrest, imprisonment, and disgrace.” 

She held her breath and her brows contracted. 
That fact, she knew, was only too true. In an 
instant she perceived that for the present she must 
conciliate this man, who was one of the rulers of 
Europe. The game she was now playing was, indeed, 
the most desperate in all her career, but the stake was 
the highest, the most valuable to her in all the world, 
her own love, peace, and happiness. 

“And suppose you took this step,” she suggested, 
finding tongue with difficulty at last. “Don’t you 
think you would imperil yourself? A foreign 
Minister, especially in our country, surrounded as he 
is by a myriad of political foes, can scarcely afford to 


A Ruler of Europe 


219 


court scandal. I should have thought the examples of 
Crispi, Rudini, and Brin were sufficient to cause a 
wary man like yourself to hesitate.” 

“I never act without due consideration/’ the 
Marquis replied. The voice in which he spoke was 
the dry, business-like tone he used towards 
Ambassadors of the Powers when discussing the 
political situation, as he was almost daily compelled 
to do. In Rome, no man was better dressed than the 
Marquis Montelupo ; no man had greater tact in 
directing matters of State; and in no man did his 
Sovereign place greater faith. As he sat beside her in 
slovenly attire, his grey moustaches uncurled, his chin 
bearing two or three days’ growth of grey beard, it 
was hard to realize that this was the same elegant 
man who, glittering with orders, so often ascended the 
great marble and gold staircase of the Quirinal, to seek 
audience with King Humbert; whose reputation as a 
statesman was world-wide, and whose winter recep- 
tions at his great old palazzo in the Via Nazionale 
were among the most brilliant diplomatic gatherings 
in Europe. 

“I have carefully considered the whole matter/’ he 
said, after a moment’s pause. “I arrived in London 
yesterday, and from what I have learnt I have decided 
to take certain steps without delay.” 

“Then you have been to the Embassy !” she 
exclaimed breathless. “You’ve denounced me to 
Castellani !” 

“There was no necessity for that,” he answered 
coldly. “He already knows that you are his enemy.” 

“I his enemy !” she echoed. “I have never done 
him an evil turn. He has heard some libellous story, 
I suppose, and, like all the world, believes me to be 
without conscience and without remorse.” 

“That’s a pretty good estimate of yourself,” the 
Marquis observed. “If you had any conscience 
whatever you would hare replied to my letters, and 


220 


A Ruler of Europe 


not maintained a dogged silence through all these 
months.” 

'‘I had an object in view,” she answered in a chilling 
tone. She, quiet and stubborn, was resolved, insolent, 
like a creature to whom men had never been able to 
refuse anything. 

“What was it ?” 

She shrugged her shoulders, and, laughing again, 
replied — 

“You have threatened me with arrest, therefore I 
will maintain silence until it pleases you to endeavour 
to ruin me. Then together we will provide a little 
sensationalism for the Farfalla, the Tribuna , the 
Secolo, and one or two other journals who will only 
be too ready to see a change of Ministry.” 

He hesitated, seeming to digest her words labori- 
ously. She glanced quickly at his dark face, which 
the distant rays of a lamp illumined, and in that 
instant knew she had triumphed. 

“You would try and ruin me, eh?” he cried in a 
hoarse menace. 

“To upset the whole political situation in Rome 
is quite easy of accomplishment, I assure you, my 
dear Marquis,” she declared, smiling. “The Oppo- 
sition will be ready to hound* out of office you 
and all your rabble of bank-thieves, blackmailers, 
adventurers, and others who are so ingeniously feath- 
ering their nests at the expense of Italy. Ah, what 
a herd!” 

Montelupo frowned. He knew quite well that she 
spoke the truth, yet with diplomatic instinct he still 
maintained a bold front. 

“Bah!” he cried defiantly. “You cannot injure 
me. When you are in prison you'd have little oppor- 
tunity for uttering any of your wild denunciations. 
The people, too, are getting a little tired of the various 
mare's-nest scandals started almost daily by the irre- 
sponsible journals. They've ceased to believe jn them,” 


A Ruler of Europe 


221 


“Yes, without proofs,” she observed. 

“You have no proof. You and I are not strangers,” 
Montelupo said. 

“First recollect that we are in England, and you 
cannot order my immediate arrest. Days must elapse 
before your application reaches London from Rome. 
In the mean time I am free to act.” Then, with a tinge 
of bitter sarcasm in her voice, she added, “No, Ex- 
cellency, your plan does not do you credit. I always 
thought you far more shrewd.” 

“Whatever so-called proofs you possess, no one 
will for an instant believe you,” he laughed with 
fine composure. “Recollect that I am Minister for 
Foreign Affairs ; then recollect who you are.” 

“I am your dupe, your victim,” she cried in a 
fierce paroxysm of anger. “My name stinks in the 
nostrils of every one in Italy — and why? Because 
you, the man who now denounces me, wove about me 
a network of pitfalls which it was impossible for me 
to avoid. You saw that, because I moved in smart 
society, because I had good looks and hosts of friends, 
I was the person to become your catspaw — your 
stepping-stone into office. You ” 

“Silence, curse you!” Montelupo cried fiercely, his 
hands clenched. “Fm too busy with the present to 
have any time for recollecting the past. It was a fair 
and business-like arrangement. You’ve been paid.” 

“Yes, with coin stolen from the Treasury by your 
rogues and swindlers who pose before Italy as patriots 
and politicians.” 

“It matters not to such a woman as you whence 
comes the money you require to keep up your fine 
appearance,” he said angrily, for this reference to his 
political party had raised his blood to fever-heat. 

“Even though I have this unenviable reputation 
which you have been pleased to give me throughout 
Italy, I am at least honest,” she cried, 

“Towards your lovers — eh?” 


222 


A Ruler of Europe 


Standing before him, in a violent outburst of anger 
she shook both her gloved hands in his face, saying : 

"Enough — enough of your insults ! For the sake 
of the land I love, for the sake of Italy’s power and 
prestige, and for your reputation I have suffered. 
But remember that the bond which fetters me to you 
will snap if stretched too far ; that instead of assisting 
you, I can ruin you.” 

"You speak plainly, certainly,” he said, after a 
moment’s hesitation. 

"I do. Through your evil machinations I have 
no reputation to lose. With artful ingenuity you 
compromised . me, you spread scandals about me in 
Florence, in Venice, in Rome, scandals that were the 
vilest libels man ever uttered. In your club you 
told men that there was something more between us 
than mere friendship, that I was extravagant, and 
that I cost you as much in diamonds at Fasoli’s in 
the Corso, on a single afternoon, as the Government 
paid you in a whole year. Such were the lies you 
spread in order to ruin me,” she cried bitterly. 
"Never have I had a soldo from your private purse, 
never a single ornament, and never have your foul 
lips touched mine. You, who boldly announced 
yourself my lover, I have ever held in scorn and 
hatred as I do now. The money I received was from 
the Treasury — part of that sum yearly filched from 
the Government funds to keep up your rickety 
old castle outside Empoli; but bound as I was by 
my oath of secrecy I could utter no word in self- 
defence, nor prosecute the journals which spread 
their highly-spiced libels. You held me beneath 
your thrall, and I, although an honest woman, 
have remained crushed and powerless.” Then she 
paused. 

"Proceed,” he observed with* sarcasm. "I am all 
attention.” 

"No mors need be said,” she answered, "I will 


A Ruler of Europe 


223 

now leave you, and wish you a pleasant journey back 
to Rome,” and she bowed and turned away. 

“Come,” he cried, dragging her by force back to 
the seat. “Don’t be an idiot, Gemma, but listen. I 
brought you here,” he commenced, “not to fence with 
you, as we have been doing, but to make a proposal ; 
one that I think you will seriously consider.” 

“Some further shady trick, I suppose. Well, explain 
your latest scheme. It is sure to be interesting.” 

“As you rightly suggest, it is a trick, Contessa,” he 
said, in a tone rather more conciliatory, and for the 
first time speaking with any show of politeness. 
“Within the past ten days the situation in Rome has 
undergone an entire change, although the journals 
know nothing; and in consequence I find Castellani, 
who has for years been my friend and supporter, is 
now one of my bitterest opponents. If there is a 
change of government he would no doubt be appointed 
Foreign Minister in my place.” 

“Well, you don’t fear him, surely?” she said. 
“You are Minister, and can recall him at any 
moment.” 

“No. Castellani holds a certain document which, 
if produced, must cause the overthrow of the Govern- 
ment, and perhaps the ruin of our country,” he 
answered in deep earnestness. “Before long, in order 
to clear himself and place himself in favour, he must 
produce this paper, and if so the revelations will 
startle Europe.” 

“Well, that is nothing to me,” she said coldly. “It 
is entirely your affair.” 

“Listen !” he exclaimed eagerly. He was now con- 
fiding to her one of the deepest secrets of the political 
undercurrent. “This document is in a sealed blue 
envelope, across the face of which a large cross has 
been drawn in blue pencil. Remember that. It is 
in the top left-hand drawer in the Ambassador’s 
writing-table in his private room. You know the 


224 


A Ruler of Europe 


room ; the small one looking out into Grosvenor 
Square. You no doubt recollect it when you were 
visiting there two years ago.” 

“Certainly,” she contented herself with replying, 
still puzzled at the strangeness of his manner. The 
wind moaned mournfully through the bare branches 
above them. 

“You are friendly with Castellanos daughter,” he 
went on earnestly. “Call to-morrow with the object 
of visiting her, and then you must make some excuse 
to enter that room alone.” 

“You mean that I must steal that incriminating 
paper?” she said. 

He nodded. 

“Impossible !” she replied, decisively. “First, I 
don’t intend to run any risk, and, secondly, I know 
quite well that nobody is allowed in that room alone. 
The door is always kept locked.” 

“There are two keys,” he interrupted. “Here is 
one of them. I secured it yesterday.” 

“And in return for this service, what am I to 
receive?” she inquired coldly, sitting erect, without 
stirring a muscle. 

“In return for this service” — he answered gravely, 
his dark eyes riveted upon hers — “in return for this 
service you shall name your own price.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


BY STEALTH 

Before she had departed from the Marquis she had 
made a demand boldly and fearlessly, to which, not 
without the most vehement protest, he had been com- 
pelled to accede. She knew him well, and was aware 
that, in order to gain his own ends, he would betray 
and denounce his nearest relative; that, although a 
shrewd, clever statesman, he had won universal 
popularity and esteem in Italy by reason of certain 
shady transactions by which he had posed as the 
saviour of his country. The revelations she could 
make regarding the undercurrent of affairs in Rome 
would astound Europe. For that reason he had been 
forced to grant her what she asked in return for 
the incriminating paper from the archives of the 
Embassy. 

For over an hour they sat together in the darkness 
engaged in a strange discussion, when at last they 
rose and together walked on, still deep in conversa- 
tion. The Marquis had an appointment, and was 
about to take leave of her when, as they crossed the 
wide deserted space between the Admiralty and the 
Horse Guards, a man in a heavy fur-trimmed over- 
coat and felt hat, in hurrying past, gazed full into 
the faces of both. At that moment they were beneath 
225 


226 


By Stealth 


one of the lamps flickering in the gusty wind, and 
he had full view of them. 

Gemma's eyes met his, and instantly the recognition 
was mutual. 

It was the man who had attempted to take her life 
— Frank Tristram. He had evidently arrived from 
the Continent by the day express from Paris, left his 
despatches at the Foreign Office, and was walking to 
his chambers in St. James's Street by the nearest way 
across the Park. He usually preferred to walk home 
in order to stretch his legs, cramped as they were by 
many tedious hours in railway carriages. 

When he had passed he turned quickly as if to 
reassure himself, then, with some muttered words, he 
strode forward with his hands deep in his pockets 
and his head bent towards the cold boisterous wind. 

“Did you notice that man who has just passed?" 
Gemma gasped, in a low voice betraying alarm. 

“No; who was he?" asked the Marquis, turning 
back to glance at the retreating figure. 

“A man you know; Tristram, the English Foreign 
Office messenger." 

“Tristram !" ejaculated Montelupo, quickly. “He's 
never recognized me?" 

“I think so," she replied. “He looked straight into 
your face." 

The Minister ejaculated a fierce Italian oath. 
“Then the fact that I'm in London will be at once 
made known," he said. 

“That is not of much importance, is it? Castellani 
already knows, for you've been to the Embassy." 

“But he will be silent. I'm here incognito," the 
Marquis cried quickly, in a changed voice. “I have 
several matters with regard to Abyssinia and our 
foreign policy to settle with the British Govern- 
ment, but am procrastinating with an object. If 
they know yonder at the Foreign Office that I am 
in London, and have not called upon their Minister, 


By Stealth 


227 


it will be considered an insult, and may strain our 
relations with England. This we can't afford to do. 
These English are useful to us. Italy has nothing 
to fear from the alliance of France and Russia, but 
nevertheless her only safe policy consists in a firm 
union with England. The Anglo-Italian naval alliance 
preserves the peace of Europe by throwing its weight 
into the scale against any disturber of tranquility. 
We shall want English ships to fight and protect us 
in the Mediterranean when France invades us on the 
Tuscan shore." Then, after a moment's reflection, he 
glanced at the illuminated clock-face of Big Ben, and 
added, “No, I must leave London at once, for in this 
direction I see a pressing danger. It’s now nearly 
seven. I'll dine and get away by the night mail for 
Paris. I must be back in Rome again at the earliest 
possible moment." 

“Am I still to go to the Embassy ?" she asked. 

“Of course," he answered quickly. “Don't delay 
an instant. It is imperative that we should obtain 
that document, and you are the only person who can 
successfully accomplish that task. When you have 
done so bring it to me in Rome. Our safety lies 
in the expeditious way in which you effect this 
coup." 

“In Rome?" she echoed. “That's impossible." 

“Why? With us everything is possible." 

“You forget that, owing to your absurd and foolish 
action a few months ago, I shall find myself arrested 
the moment I cross the frontier," she answered. 

“Ah, yes, I quite forgot," he replied. “But that's 
easily remedied." 

They were passing through the square of the Horse 
Guards at that moment, and halting beneath a lamp 
where stood a cavalry sentry motionless and statu- 
esque, he took from his bulky wallet a visiting-card 
and scribbled a few words upon its back. Then, 
handing it to her, said — 


228 


By Stealth 


“This is your passport. If there is any difficulty 
in reaching me, present this/' 

She took it, glanced at the scribbled words, and 
thrust it into her glove. Then, upon the wide pave- 
ment in Parliament Street, a few moments later, he 
lifted his hat politely, and they parted. 

At noon next day Gemma called at the Embassy, 
and was shown into the waiting-room. She had 
not remained there five minutes when suddenly the 
Ambassador's daughter burst into the room with a 
loud cry of welcome, and kissed her visitor enthusi- 
astically on both cheeks in Italian fashion. Slight, 
and strange rather than pretty, she had a delicate 
face, dark eyes, a small quivering nose, a rather large, 
ever-ruddy mouth, and curling, straggling black locks, 
which ever waved as in a perpetual breeze. 

“I’m so glad, so very glad you've called, dear," 
Carmenilla said enthusiastically. “Father mentioned 
the other day that you were in England, and I've 
wondered so often why you've never been to see us." 

“I've been staying with friends in the country," 
Gemma explained. “I suppose you speak English 
quite well now." 

“A little. But oh! it is so difficult," she laughed. 
“And it is so different here to Firenze or Rome. The 
people are so strange." 

“Yes," Gemma sighed. “I have also found it so." 

In their girlhood days they had been close friends 
through five years at the grey old convent of San 
Paolo della Croce in the Via della Chiesa at Firenze, 
and afterwards at Rome, where Carmenilla had lived 
with a rather eccentric old aunt, the Marchesa Tas- 
sino, while her father had been absent fulfilling the 
post of Ambassador at Vienna. 

“I'm so very glad you've called," Castellani's 
daughter repeated. “Come to my room; take off 
your things and stay to luncheon. Father is out, 
and I'm quite alone." 


By Stealth 


229 

“The Count is out,” repeated her visitor in a 
feigned tone of regret. Truth to tell, however, it was 
intelligence most welcome to her. “I’m sorry he's 
not at home. We haven't met for so long.” 

“Oh, he’s dreadfully worried just now!” his 
daughter answered. “The work at this Embassy 
is terrible. He seems writing and interviewing 
people from morning until night. He works much 
harder now than any of the staff; while at Brussels 
it was all so different. He had absolutely nothing 
to do.” 

“But this England is such a great and wonderful 
country, while Belgium is such a tiny one,” Gemma 
observed. “The whole diplomatic world revolves 
around London.” 

“Yes, of course,” she resumed. “But to sustain 
Italy’s prestige we are compelled to do such lots of 
entertaining. I’m terribly sick of it all. The sit- 
uation in Rome began to change almost as soon as 
father was appointed here, and now it has become 
extremely grave and critical. The men who were 
once his friends are now his bitterest foes. He has 
adjusted several most difficult matters recently, but no 
single word of commendation has he received from the 
Marquis Montelupo.” 

“Perhaps the Marquis is not his friend,” Gemma 
hazarded, for the purpose of ascertaining the extent 
of her knowledge. 

“No. He is his enemy; of that I’m absolutely 
confident,” the girl replied. “I hate him. He’s 
never straightforward. Once, in Rome, he tried to 
worm from me a secret of my father’s, and because 
I would not speak he has never forgiven me.” 

“Was it some very deep secret?” Gemma inquired. 

“Yes. It concerned the prestige of Italy and my 
father’s reputation for probity,” she replied. Why 
the King trusts him so implicitly, I can never 
understand.” 


230 


Bv Stealth 


“If there are serious political complications in 
Rome, as you seem to think, then the days of his 
power are numDered,” observed her visitor, now 
master of herself again. “The Ministry will be 
thrown out.” 

“Ah ! that would be the best thing that could happen 
to Italy,” she declared with a look of wisdom. 
“Montelupo is my father's enemy; he seeks to fetter 
him in every action, in order that his reputation as 
a diplomat may be ruined, so that the King may be 
forced to send him his letters of recall. Truly the 
post of Ambassador in London is no sinecure.” 

Gemma was silent. She hesitated and shuddered. 
Carmenilla noticed it, and asked her if she were 
cold. 

“No, no,” she answered quickly. “It is quite 
warm and cosy here.” The light played on her 
smooth skin to admiration, and the colour changed 
in her excited face. 

At luncheon, served with that stateliness which 
characterized the whole of the Ambassador's house- 
hold, they chatted on, as women will chat, of dress, 
of books, of plays, and of the latest gossip from Flor- 
ence and Rome, the two centres of Italian society. 
They were eating their dessert, when the hall-porter 
entered bearing a card upon the salver. Carmenilla 
glanced at it, smiled, and rose to excuse herself. 

“A visitor!” Gemma exclaimed. “Who is it?” 

Her friend hesitated, blushing ever so faintly. 

“An Englishman,” she answered. “I won't be 
more than ten minutes. Try and amuse yourself, 
won't you, dear? Go back to the boudoir and play. 
I know you love music.” And she left the room 
hurriedly. 

The card was still lying beside her plate, and Gemma 
in curiosity, reached forward and took it up. In an 
instant, however, she cast it from her. 

The man who had called was Frank Tristram. 


By Stealth 


23 * 

In order not to attract the undue attention of the 
grave-faced man who stood silent and immovable 
before the great carved oak buffet, she finished her 
apple leisurely, sipped the tiny cup of coffee, dipped 
the tips of her fingers in the silver-rimmed bowl of 
rose-scented water, and rising, passed out along the 
corridor back to the warm, cosy little room where 
they had passed such a pleasant hour. 

She had detected Carmenilla’s flushed cheeks, and 
had suspicion that this caller was no ordinary friend. 
This man, whose murderous fingers had not long ago 
clutched themselves around her own throat, was a 
friend of this smart, slim girl who was so admired 
in London society. She stood silent in the centre of 
the little room, her heart beating wildly, wondering 
whether she might, without arousing suspicion, re- 
trace her steps along that long, thickly carpeted 
corridor and secure the document which Montelupo 
required. The voices of servants sounded outside, 
and she knew that at present to approach and unlock 
the door unobserved was impossible. 

Therefore she advanced to the grate, and spreading 
out her chilly, nervous hands to the fire, waited, de- 
termined to possess herself in patience. Even now 
she felt inclined to draw back because of the enormous 
risk she ran. Castellani was not her friend. If he 
knew, he might give her over to the English police 
as a common thief. Her face was of death-like pallor 
at that* moment of indecision. Again she shuddered. 

With her hand upon her heaving breast, as if to 
allay J an acute pain that centred there, her white lips 
moved, but no sound escaped them. She listened. 
The. servants had gone. 

Carmenilla was downstairs chatting with Tristram ; 
the house at last seemed silent and deserted, therefore 
Gemma, losing no time in further indecision, and 
holding her silken skirts tight around her so that 
they should not rustle, crept out on tiptoe, holding in 


By Stealth 


232 

her hand the key which Montelupo had given her. 
At first she proceeded slowly and noiselessly, but, 
fearing detection, hurried forward as she approached 
the door of the Ambassador's room. 

At last she gained it, breathless. With scarce a 
sound she placed the key in the lock, and a moment 
later was inside, closing the door after her. 

Unhesitatingly she went straight to the table, and 
placed her hand upon the drawer containing the doc- 
ument. It was locked. Next instant her heart 
beat wildly as her quick eye espied the key still 
remaining in another drawer, and, taking it, she 
opened the locked drawer and stood examining the 
great blue official envelope in her hand. 

Yes, the blue pencil mark was upon it in the form 
of a cross, as the Marquis had described. She had 
gained what she sought. Triumph was hers. 

Quickly she turned to make her exit, but next 
second fell back with a loud wild cry of alarm. 

Count Castellani had entered noiselessly, and was 
standing erect and motionless between her and the 
door. 


CHAPTER XXV 


A WOMAN S DIPLOMACY 

Gemma stood immovable; a deathly pallor overspread 
her cheeks, her eyes fixed themselves in terror upon 
this tall, well-dressed man, who was her bitterest 
enemy. With one trembling hand she clutched the 
revolving book-stand for support; the other held the 
envelope containing the secret document. She dared 
not to breathe ; amazement and alarm held her dumb. 

“And by what right, pray, do you enter my room ?” 
the Ambassador inquired, after a few seconds of si- 
lence, complete and painful. His face was blanched in 
anger ; in his dark eyes was a keen glance of suspicion 
and hatred. 

She laughed — that strange hollow laugh which her 
lover knew so well. 

“I came to call on you,” she answered. The door 
was closed, and they were alone together. 

“And you entered my room to pry into my private 
papers?” he said, his blood rising. “What's that you 
have in your hand ?” 

She set her lips firmly. She was no longer the 
sweet, almost childlike girl, but a hard-faced, desperate 
woman. 

“A paper I want,” she boldly answered, at the same 
moment doubling the envelope in half, and crushing it 
in her palm. 

“Then you have at last become so bold that you 
233 


234 


A Woman's Diplomacy 


actually have the audacity to enter one's house, and 
steal whatever you think proper?" He cried, in a 
towering passion. “Fortunately, I've returned in time 
to frustrate your latest bit of infernal ingenuity." 

“My action is but fair, now that we are enemies," 
she answered with feigned indignation. “If you 
could, you'd ruin me ; therefore I'm entirely at liberty 
to return the same compliment." 

“I thought you were already ruined," the Count 
exclaimed. “Your reputation, at any rate, cannot be 
rendered blacker than it is." 

“That's the truth, no doubt." She laughed with an 
air of gaiety. “But one who makes secret diplomacy 
a profession, must care nothing for the good will of 
the world outside the diplomatic circle." 

“Those who make love their profession, should be 
constant, if they would achieve success," he retorted 
bitterly. 

At that moment a recollection flashed across her 
mind. It had slipped her memory until that instant. 
This man had on one occasion, in Rome, two years 
ago, spoken tenderly to her, and she had scorned his 
attentions. With a woman's quick perception, she 
now saw that the fact that she had rejected him still 
rankled within his mind. Yet she was still young 
enough to be his daughter, and had always held him 
in dislike. He was a cold, scheming diplomatist, who 
would stake his very soul in order to get the better of 
his adversaries. 

“Once you spoke of love to me," she said, drawing 
herself up proudly. “Now you ruthlessly cast my 
past into my face. Even if I have acted as a diplo- 
matic agent, you know well enough that all these 
scandalous stories about me are foul libels set about 
by Montelupo and yourself for political purposes." 

“Enough !" he cried, incensed at her words. “We 
need not discuss that now. I demand to know why* 
I find you prying here, in my room ?" 


A Woman's Diplomacy 


235 


She smiled. “I came to see Carmenilla,” she 
answered. 

‘‘And she invited you to lunch? — you whom I 
have forbidden her to know?” he exclaimed, exaspe- 
rated. “A woman of your stamp is no companion for 
my daughter.” 

“Yet you once told me that you loved me, and 
I might, if I had felt so inclined, have now been the 
Countess Castellani, and done the honours of this 
Embassy. “Ah, my dear Conte,” she went on, “you 
are a noted diplomatist, and no doubt as wary and 
cunning as most of your confreres. But you forget 
that every woman is by birth a diplomatist, and that 
in politics I have had a wide and, perhaps, unique 
experience.” 

“You possess the ingenuity and daring of the very 
devil himself,” he blurted forth. “Show me that 
paper.” 

“No,” she answered firmly. “It is in my possession 
— and I keep it.” 

“You've stolen it!” he cried, advancing towards 
her determinedly. “Give it to me this instant.” 

“I shall not.” 

From where he stood his eyes wandered to the table, 
and he noticed that one of the drawers stood open. 
Within her hand, he saw the envelope was a blue one, 
secured by seals. In an instant he dashed towards 
the drawer, rummaged its contents, and finding the 
document missing, cried — 

“Your infernal impertinence is really astounding. 
You enter my house, commit a theft, and when 
charged with it refuse to give up the stolen property. 
If you don't return it to me at once, I’ll call in the 
police, and have you arrested.” 

“Really?” she exclaimed, with a sarcastic laugh 
which caused his cheeks to become flushed by anger. 
“I think after so many years of diplomacy, you ought 
to be aware that such a course is impossible. If you 


236 


A Woman's Diplomacy 


were a young attache just fresh from Rome, my dear 
Count, you might be pardoned for not knowing that 
here, in this Embassy, I am on Italian soil, and, being 
an Italian subject, the London police are unable to 
arrest me." 

“But they could outside — in the Square." 

“Certainly. But if I choose to remain here — what * 
then?" 

“Remain here! You speak like an imbecile. 
Come, give me back that envelope." 

“Never!" she replied, still holding it firmly in her 
small hand, and regarding him in defiance. 

Castellani knew well the contents of that envelope, 
and was aware that Gemma must have been employed 
by those implicated by the proofs it contained. For 
months he had held this in his possession as a weapon 
to use as a last resource, and the manner in which she 
had entered his room and filched it from the drawer 
made it plain to him that those to whom he was now 
opposed were prepared to go any length to gain their 
own ends. But he likewise knew Gemma well, and 
was aware that as a secret agent of the Ministry she 
was without equal — fearless, resourceful, and versed 
in every art of deception. He had met her often in 
society in Rome and Florence two years ago, been 
struck by her marvellous beauty as others had been, 
and had offered her marriage. In a word, he had made 
a fool of himself. 

The revelations contained in that envelope she held 
were sufficient to cause the present Government to 
be hounded from its office and fat emoluments, and 
possibly force a criminal prosecution against certain 
ministers for misappropriating the public funds, there- 
fore he was determined to regain it at all hazards 
and use it for his own advancement. He had, only a 
month ago, been promised by his party the Ministry of 
Foreign Affairs in the next Government, and this sin- 
gle document would place him in high office in Rome, 


A Woman's Diplomacy 


O'?** 

-'O/ 


“If you defy me,” he said, after a pause, his 
menacing gaze fixed upon that of the pretty, fragile 
woman, “I must be ungallant enough to wrench it 
from you.” 

“I scarcely think you’ll do that,” she answered. 
“If you did, we could never come to terms.” 

“Come to terms?” he echoed resentfully. “I don’t 
understand. I’ve no intention of coming to any 
arrangement with you.” 

He was standing before her in the centre of the 
room, but she watched his every movement narrowly. 
She saw that he was desperate, and intended to regain 
possession of the envelope. 

“Once again I ask you to give me that paper you 
have stolen,” he said in a voice that quivered with 
rage. 

“I have already replied, Count Castellani,” she 
responded, “and I wish you good afternoon.” Then, 
with her skirts rustling, she bowed and swept past 
him towards the door. 

“No!” he cried, springing forward and arresting 
her progress in a moment of fury. “You shall not 
escape like that. Give me the paper, or — or by 
Heaven I’ll ” 

“Well?” she cried, turning upon him with flashing 
eyes. “What will you do?” 

He drew back abashed. 

“I apologize, Contessa,” he said quickly. “But 
give me back that paper. Remember that you’ve 
committed a barefaced, unpardonable theft.” 

“And you, as Ambassador of Italy, utter barefaced 
lies every day,” she retorted. 

“Diplomacy is the art of lying artistically,” he 
answered. “It is impossible to achieve success in 
diplomacy without resorting to realistic perversions of 
the truth. Every diplomatist must be a born liar — 
but he need not be a thief.” 

“Some are,” she retorted. “You are one.” 


238 


A Woman's Diplomacy 


His face went purple in anger. 

“I — a thief?" he blurted forth. “Have you taken 
leave of your senses, woman ?” 

“Not entirely. I believe I have some remaining," 
she replied. “I again repeat that you, the Count 
Castellani, His Majesty’s Ambassador, are a mean, 
despicable thief, whom the Tribunal at Rome would 
sentence to seven years’ imprisonment if they became 
acquainted with the facts." 

“Enough! Not another word, woman!" he cried 
in a towering passion. Then, grasping her arms, he, 
after a short desperate struggle, succeeded in wrench- 
ing from her the envelope for which she had risked 
so much. “Now you may go," he said, as she stood 
flushed, panting, and breathless before him, her hair 
a trifle disarranged, the lace upon one of her cuffs 
torn and hanging. “If you don’t leave at once, I’ll 
ring and have you turned out." 

“I shall go when you give me back that paper," 
she answered, facing him. 

“You’ll never have it." 

“Then, listen," she went on calmly, taking a few 
hasty steps towards where he was standing astride 
before the fire. “The worth of that document is to 
you considerable, I know, but there are others to 
whom its value is even greater. Just now I charged 
you with theft, and you feigned to have forgotten. 
Well, I will recall a fact or two to your memory. A 
year ago, at Como, there was an inquiry into certain 
scandals connected with the Bank of Naples." Then 
she paused. The Ambassador’s face had instantly 
blanched. “Ah !" she went on, “I see that event has 
not quite slipped your memory. Well, as the result 
of that inquiry, in which certain statesmen were im- 
plicated, two well-known public men received sent- 
ences of ten years’ imprisonment, and others ranging 
from two to five years. But, at that inquiry, it was 
shown that a certain cheque was missing, and it was 


A Woman's Diplomacy 239 

further proved that this cheque had been drawn for 
half a million francs. To whom that sum passed 
remained a mystery.” 

“Well?” his Excellency gasped, still pale, glaring 
at her as if she were some object supernatural. All 
his self-possession had left him. 

“The fact is a mystery no longer.” 

“Why?” 

“Because the identical cheque has been recovered, 
and bears your endorsement,” she answered in a slow, 
distinct voice. 

“Who has recovered it?” he demanded quickly. 
“Who has it?” 

She smiled triumphantly. This elegant man who 
but a moment ago had talked boldly, as became the 
Ambassador of Italy, was now cringing before her 
seeking information. His cool demeanour had alto- 
gether forsaken him. 

“I have that cheque,” she said, her clear, unwaver- 
ing eyes fixed upon his. 

In an instant Castellani perceived that he was in 
the power of this pretty woman he had denounced 
and condemned. He knew well, too, that she was 
not the gay, abandoned woman that La Funaro was 
popularly supposed to be. 

“Reflect for a single moment,” she continued ruth- 
lessly. “What would be the result of the production 
of that missing draft about which so much has been 
written in the newspapers?” 

The Ambassador bit his lip. Never in the whole 
course of his long and varied diplomatic career had 
he been so ingeniously checkmated by a woman. 
The estimate he had formed of her long ago was 
entirely correct. She possessed really remarkable 
talents. 

“The result would certainly be rather annoying,” 
he observed, making a sorry attempt to smile. 

“It would throw a very fierce light upon the ways 


240 


A Woman’s Diplomacy 


and means of the party of thieves and adventurers 
who are endeavouring to grab Italy and grow fat 
upon its Treasury/' she exclaimed. “The situation 
at Rome has, I understand, changed considerably 
within the past week or so. The public mind is 
feeling the influence of unfavourable winds. Well, 
it is possible before long that this missing cheque 
will have to be produced." 

“Which will mean my ruin!" he blurted forth. 
“You know that well. If that cheque ever gets 
into the hands of the present Government, I shall be 
recalled and tried in a criminal court as a common 
thief." 

“That's exactly what I said not long ago. You 
then declared that you had never touched a soldo of 
other persons' money," she observed, standing with 
her hand resting upon the writing-table, a slim, 
graceful figure in her dark stuff dress. 

“No, Gemma, no!" he exclaimed earnestly. “You 
can’t mean to expose this. I — I don't believe you 
have the cheque, after all. How did you learn my 
secret ?" 

“It is my duty to become acquainted with the 
secrets of those in opposition to the Government," 
she answered simply. “Remember what you have said 
of me since we have been together in this room. Of 
a woman of my evil reputation, what can you expect 
but exposure?" 

“You have resolved upon a vendetta?" he cried in 
a tone of genuine alarm. 

“I have resolved to treat you fairly," she replied, 
so calm that not a muscle of her face moved. “In 
return for that envelope and its contents which you've 
snatched from me, I will give you back your cheque." 

“When?" he cried eagerly. 

“Now — at this moment." 

“You have it here?" 

“Yes," she replied, “Give me that envelope at 


A Woman's Diplomacy 24 r 

once, and let us end this conversation. It is painful 
to me to speak like this to one who once offered to 
make me his wife." 

His Excellency frowned, meditating deeply. He 
saw that La Funaro had entrapped him so cleverly 
that there was no loophole for escape. She was 
remorseless and unrelenting as far as political affairs 
went, and he knew that if she had decided to hand 
the draft to the authorities, the result must prove 
utterly disastrous. Not only would he be ruined, but 
his party who sought office would be held up to 
public opprobrium and hopelessly wrecked. 

'‘That paper is a purely private one," he said. “I 
cannot allow you to take it, Gemma." 

“You prefer exposure, then?" she inquired, slightly 
inclining her head. “The Ministry of Justice are 
exceedingly anxious to recover that cheque, I assure 
you. Probably they will compel you to disgorge the 
substantial sum you received from the national funds 
when you endorsed the draft." 

He paused again, his eyes fixed upon the carpet. 

“I'm not anxious for any revelations," he answered 
in a sudden tone of confidence. “But your price is 
too high. The document which you so nearly secured 
is to me worth double that which you offer." 

“Very well," she said, shrugging her shoulders 
impatiently. “If that's your decision, I am content." 

He was silent. His head was bent upon his breast, 
his arms were folded. 

“Let me see this cheque of yours," he exclaimed 
at last in a dry, dubious tone. 

She unbuttoned the breast of her dress, tore away 
the stitches of the lining, and took out a small en- 
velope, from which she drew a large, green-coloured 
draft. Then, turning it over, she exhibited his own 
angular signature upon its back. Afterwards, she 
replaced it in its envelope, and then said — 

“Shall we make the exchange? Or are you still 


A Woman's Diplomacy 


242 

prepared to face exposure? It will not be pleasant 
for poor Carmenilla if her father is sent to prison for 
embezzlement.” 

“Yes, for Carmenilla!” the Ambassador gasped next 
instant. “For Carmenilla’s sake I will deal with you, 
and make the exchange. You are a truly wonderful 
woman, Gemma ; the most shrewd, the most cunning, 
and” — he paused — “and the most beautiful in all the 
world.” 

“Your compliments are best unuttered, my dear 
Count,” she replied, the muscles of her face unrelaxed. 
“Remember, like yourself, Fm a diplomatist, and it is 
scarcely necessary for us to bestow praises upon each 
other — is it? Give me the envelope.” 

Slowly he walked over to the table and took the 
document from the drawer wherein he had placed it. 
For a moment he hesitated with it still in his hand. 
By giving it to her he was throwing down his arms; 
he was relinquishing the only weapon he held against 
his enemies in Rome. 

But in her white hand he saw the piece of green 
incriminating paper which was such incontestable 
proof of his roguery and dishonesty in the past. The 
sight of it caused him serious misgivings. Once that 
were destroyed he need not fear any other proof that 
could be brought against him. He had a reputation 
for probity, and at all hazards must retain it. This 
last reflection decided him. 

He crossed to where Gemma stood, and handing 
her the sealed envelope with the blue cross upon it, 
received the cancelled cheque in exchange. 

His brow was heavy, and he sighed as, at the 
window, he examined it to reassure himself there was 
no mistake. Then, returning to the fire, he lit it at 
one corner, and in silence held it between his fingers 
until the flames had consumed it, leaving only a small 
piece of curling cracking tinder. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE PALAZZO FUNARO 

Days had lengthened into weeks, and it was already 
the end of February. In Florence, as in London, 
February is not the most enjoyable time of the year, 
and those who travel south to the Winter City ex- 
pecting the sunshine and warmth of the Riviera are 
usually sadly disappointed. At the end of March 
Florence becomes pleasant, and remains so till the 
end of May; while in autumn, when the mosquitoes 
cease to trouble, the sun has lost its power, and the 
Lungarno is cool, it is also a delightful place of resi- 
dence. But February afternoons beside the Arno are 
very often as dark, as dreary, and as yellow as beside 
the Thames ; and as Gemma sat after luncheon in her 
cosy room, the smallest in the great old palazzo in the 
Borgo d’Albizzi which bore her name, she shuddered 
and drew a silken shawl about her shoulders. It was 
one of the show-places of Florence; one of those 
ponderous, prison-like buildings built of huge rocks 
of brown stone, time-worn, having weathered the 
storms of five centuries, and notable as containing a 
magnificent collection of works of art. Its mediaeval 
exterior, a relic of ancient Florence, was gloomy and 
forbidding enough, with its barred windows, over- 
hanging roof, strange lanterns of wonderfully worked 
iron, and great iron rings to which men tied their 

243 


244 


The Palazzo Funaro 


horses in days bygone. Once beyond the great court- 
yard, however, it was indeed a gorgeous palace. The 
Funaros had always been wealthy and powerful in the 
Lily City, and had through ages collected within their 
palace quantities of antiquities and costly objects. 
Every room was beautifully decorated, some with 
wonderful frescoes by Andrea del Sarto, whose work 
in the outer court of the Annunziata is ever admired 
by sight-seers of every nationality, while the paintings 
were by Ciro Ferri, Giovanni da Bologna, Filippo 
Lippi, Botticelli, and Fra Bartolommeo, together with 
some frescoes in grisaille with rich oramentation by 
del Sarto's pupil Franciabigio, and hosts of other 
priceless works. 

It was a magnificent residence. There were half 
a dozen other palaces in the same thoroughfare, in- 
cluding the Altoviti, the Albizzi, and the Pazzi, but 
this was the finest of them all. When Gemma had 
inherited it she had at once furnished half a dozen 
rooms in modern style. The place was so enormous 
that she always felt lost in it, and seldom strayed 
beyond these rooms which overlooked the great paved 
courtyard with its ancient wall and curious sculptures 
chipped and weather-worn. The great gloomy silent 
rooms, with their bare oaken floors, mouldering tapes- 
tries, and time-blackened pictures, were to her grim 
and ghostly, as, indeed, they were to any but an art 
enthusiast or a lover of the antique. But the Contessa 
Funaro lived essentially in the present, and always 
declared herself more in love with cleanliness than 
antiquarian dirt. She had no taste for the relics of the 
past, and affected none. If English or American 
tourists found anything in the collections to admire, 
they were at liberty to do so on presenting their card 
to the liveried hall-porter. At the door the man had 
a box, and the money placed therein was sent regularly 
each quarter to the Maternity Hospital. 

She spent little time in her grim, silent home; for 


The Palazzo Funaro 


245 


truth to tell, its magnificence irritated her, and its 
extent always filled her with a sense of loneliness. 
The housekeeper, an elderly gentlewoman who had 
been a friend of her dead mother's, was very deaf, 
and never amusing; therefore, after a fortnight or 
so, she was generally ready to exchange the Funaro 
Palace for the Hotel Cavour at Milan, the Minerva 
at Rome, or the hospitality of some country villa. 
Hotels, or even small houses, were not so grim and 
prison-like as her own great palazzo, the very walls 
of which seemed to breathe mutely of the past — of 
those troublous times when the clank of armour 
echoed in the long stone corridors, and the clink of 
spurs sounded in the courtyard below where now the 
only invaders were the pigeons. 

The furniture of the small elegant room in which 
she sat was entirely modern, upholstered in pale blue 
silk, with her monogram in gold thread; the carpets 
were thick, the great high Florentine stove threw 
forth a welcome warmth, and the grey light which 
filtered through the curtains was just sufficient to 
allow her to read. She was lying back in her long 
chair in a lazy, negligent attitude, her fair hair a 
trifle disordered by contact with the cushion behind 
her head; and one of her little slippers having fallen 
off, her small foot in its neat black silk stocking 
peeped out beneath her skirt. On the table at her 
elbow were two or three unopened letters, while in a 
vase stood a fine bouquet of flowers, a tribute from her 
deaf housekeeper. 

Since the day she had parted from Count Castellani 
in the hall of the Embassy in Grosvenor Square she 
had travelled a good deal. She had been down to 
Rome, had had an interview with the Marq^s Monte- 
lupo, and a week ago had unexpectedly arrived at 
the palazzo. As she had anticipated, when she broke 
her journey at Turin, on her way from London to 
Rome, and signed her name in the visitors' book at 


The Palazzo Funaro 


246 

the hotel, a police official called early on the follow- 
ing morning to inform her that she must consider 
herself under arrest. But the words scribbled by 
Montelupo upon his visiting-card had acted like magic, 
and, having taken the card to the Questura, the de- 
tective returned all bows and apologies, and she was 
allowed to proceed on her journey. 

Nearly nine months had elapsed since she last set 
foot within her great old palazzo, and as she sat that 
afternoon she allowed her book to fall upon her lap 
and her eyes to slowly wander around the pretty room. 
She glanced at the window where the rain was being 
driven upon the tiny panes by the boisterous wind, 
and again she shuddered. 

With an air of weariness she raised her hand and 
pushed the mass of fair hair off her brow, as if its 
weight oppressed her, sighing heavily. The events of 
the past month had been many and strange. In Rome 
she had found herself beset by a hundred pitfalls, but 
she had kept faith with the Marquis, and the terms she 
had made with him were such as to give her complete 
satisfaction. A crisis, however, was, she knew, immi- 
nent ; a crisis in which she would be compelled to play 
a leading part. But to do so would require all her 
ingenuity, all her woman’s wit, all her courage, all 
her skill at deception. 

Suddenly, as she was thus reflecting, Margherita, 
her faithful but ugly woman, who had been with her 
at Livorno, opened the door, and, drawing aside the 
heavy portiere, said — 

“The signore !” 

“At last ! at last !” she cried, excitedly jumping up 
instantly. “Show him up at once.” Then, facing 
the great mirror, she placed both hands to her hair, 
rearranging it deftly, recovered her lost slipper, cast 
aside the wrap, and stood ready to receive her visitor. 

Again the door opened. The man who entered was 
Charles Armytage. 


The Palazzo Funaro 


247 


For a few moments he held her in fond embrace, 
kissing her lips tenderly again and again ; while she, 
in that soft, crooning voice that had rung in his ears 
through all those months of separation, welcomed 
him, reiterating her declarations of love. 

“I received your telegram in Brussels two days 
ago, and have come to you direct,” he said at last. 
“I did not go to the Post Office every day, hence the 
delay.” 

“Ah! my poor Nino must be tired,” she cried, 
suddenly recollecting. “Here, this couch. Sit here ; 
it will rest you. Povero Nino! What a terrible 
journey — from Brussels to Florence !” 

He sank upon the divan she indicated, pale, weary, 
and travel-worn, while she, taking a seat beside him, 
narrated how she had left Lyddington for London, 
and afterwards travelled to Rome. Feeling that the 
glance of the woman he worshipped was fixed upon 
him, he raised his head; and then their eyes met for 
a moment with an expression of infinite gentleness, 
the mournful gentleness of their heroic love. 

“Why did you go to Rome?” he asked. “You 
always said you hated it.” 

“I had business,” she answered. “Urgent busi- 
ness; business which has again aroused hope within 
me. 

“Still of a secret nature?” the young Englishman 
hazarded, with a quick glance of suspicion. 

“For the present, yes,” she replied in a low, intense 
voice. “But you still love me, Nino? You can trust 
me now, can't you?” and she looked earnestly into 
his face. 

“I have already trusted you,” he replied. “Since 
that night I left you at Lyddington my life has indeed 
been a dull, aimless one. You have been ever in my 
mind, and I have wondered daily, hourly, what was 
the nature of this grave, mysterious peril which you 
say threatens both of us.” 


248 


The Palazzo Funaro 


“That peril still exists,” she answered. “It in- 
creases daily, nay hourly.” 

*You are still threatened? You, the wealthy 
owner of this magnificent palazzo!” he exclaimed, 
gazing around the pretty room bewildered. “Often 
when I was in Florence, in those days when we first 
met, I passed this great building. Little, however, 
did I dream that my Gemma, who used to cycle with 
me in the Cascine, was its owner.” 

She laughed. “I had reasons for not letting you 
know my real name,” she replied. “It is true that 
I have money ; but wealth has brought me no happi- 
ness — only sorrow, alas ! — until I met you.” 

“And now you are happy?” he asked earnestly. 

“Ah! yes, I am happy when you are beside me, 
Nino,” she responded, grasping his hand in hers. “I 
never thought that I could learn to love you so. I 
am still nervous, still in dread, it is true. The reason 
of my fear is a strange one ; I fear the future, and I 
fear myself.” 

“Yourself!” he echoed. “You told me that once 
before — long ago. You are not very formidable.” 

“Ah, no ! You don't understand,” she cried 
hastily. “I fear that I may not have the strength and 
courage to carry through a plan I have formed to 
secure your safety and my own liberty.” 

“But I can assist you,” he suggested. “Your 
interests are mine now, remember,” he added, kissing 
her. 

“Yes,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “But to 
render me assistance is not possible. Any action on 
your part must necessarily imperil both of us. No, I 
must act alone.” 

“When?” 

“Very soon. In a few days, or a few weeks. When, 
I know not. Very soon I must return to England.” 

“To England !” he cried. “I thought you preferred 
your own Italy!” 


The Palazzo Funaro 


249 

“I have an object in going back/' she answered 
ambiguously. 

“You'd let me accompany you?" 

She reflected for a moment ; then, without respond- 
ing, rose, rang the bell, and told the manservant, who 
entered resplendent in the blue Funaro livery, to bring 
her visitor some wine. 

“You must be half famished after your journey," 
she exclaimed. She was standing before him in a 
white gown, white from head to foot. “I must really 
apologize for not being more hospitable, Nino." 

“I'm really not hungry," he replied. Then he 
added, “You didn't answer my question." 

“I was reflecting," she responded slowly. “I don’t 
know whether it is wise at this juncture for you 
to return to England, into the very midst of your 
enemies." 

“You haven't yet explained who my enemies are, 
beyond urging me to be wary of Malvano. True, 
that man has lied to me about you. He told me 
a silly, romantic, and wholly fictitious story regard- 
ing your parentage ; but, after all, he may have been 
mistaken, especially as it was in answer to my in- 
quiry whether he knew any one named Fanetti in 
Florence." 

“Malvano was well aware that I had used that 
name more than once," his well-beloved replied. “He 
wilfully deceived you for his own purpose. He wished 
to part us." 

“Why? He is surely not in love with you?" 

“Certainly not," she answered, laughing at such an 
idea. His object was not jealousy." 

“Then he is actually my enemy ?" 

“Yes," she replied. “Avoid him. If you desire to 
return to England with me, I will allow you to do so 
with one stipulation. The moment we set foot in 
London we must part. If it were known that we 
were together, all my plans would be frustrated," 


250 


The Palazzo Funaro 


“And I am to leave you to the mercy of these 
mysterious enemies of yours ?” he observed dubiously. 

“It is imperative. You must leave London instantly 
and go away into the country. Malvano must not 
know that you are in England. Go to your uncle's 
in Berkshire, and wait there until I can with safety 
communicate with you.” 

“But all this is extraordinary,” he said, mystified, 
taking from her hand the glass of wine she had poured 
out for him. “I must confess myself still puzzled 
at finding you mistress of this magnificent palace, and 
yet existing in deadly fear of mysterious enemies.” He 
knew nothing of her connection with the Italian 
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and only regarded her 
as a wealthy woman whose caprice it had been to 
masquerade, and who had earned a wide reputation 
for gaiety and recklessness. 

“Some day, before long, you shall know the whole 
truth, Nino,” she assured him in deep earnestness. 
“When you do, you will be amazed — astounded, as 
others will be. I know I act strangely, without any 
apparent motive. I know you have heard evil of me 
on every hand, yet you still trust me,” and again she 
looked into his eyes ; “yet you still love me.” 

“Yes, piccina,” he answered, calling her once again 
by that endearing term she had taught him in those 
summer days beside the sea when he knew so little 
Italian and experienced such difficulty in speaking to 
her. “Yes,” he said, placing his arm tenderly round 
her waist, “I trust you, although evil tongues every- 
where try to wound you.” 

Only when beside this man she loved was she her 
real self, true, honest, loving, and tender-hearted. To 
the world outside she was compelled to wear the mask 
as a cold, sneering, crafty, and coquettish woman, the 
cunning and remorseless adventuress who had won 
such unenviable notoriety in the political circle at 
Rome and in Florentine society. 


The Palazzo Funaro 


251 


“La Funaro is known by repute in every town 
throughout Italy,” she said brokenly. “My reputation 
is that of a vain, coquettish woman without heart, 
without remorse. But you, Nino, when you know the 
truth, shall be my judge. Then you will know how I 
have suffered. The foul lies uttered on every side 
have cut me to the quick, but under compulsion I 
have remained silent. Soon, however” — and her 
brilliant eyes seemed to flash with eagerness at the 
thought which crossed her mind — “soon I shall 
release myself, and then you shall know everything — 
everything.” 

“On that day perfect happiness will come to me,” 
he said fervently. “I love you, Gemma, more deeply 
than ever man loved woman.” 

“And I, too, Nino, love you with all my heart, with 
all my soul.” 

Their lips met again in a fierce caress, their hands 
clasped tightly. He looked into her clear eyes, bright 
with unshed tears, and saw fear and determination, 
truth and honesty, mirrored therein. Her tiny hand 
trembled in his, and then for very joy she suddenly 
burst into a flood of emotion. 

“When shall we leave for England?” he asked at 
last, his strong arms still about her waist. 

“In a couple of days. I have only waited here for 
you to join me,” she said, drying her eyes. “Life 
without you, Nino, is impossible.” 

“So within a week we shall be in London?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “Soon, very soon, I hope, I may 
be free. But I have a task before me — one that is 
difficult and desperate. In order to secure your safety 
and my own freedom from the hateful bonds which 
have fettered me these last two years, I am compelled 
to resort to strategy, to deception deep and cunning, 
the smallest revelation of which would wreck all our 
hopes.” 

“How?” 


252 


The Palazzo Funaro 


“Exposure of my plans would cost me my life,” she 
answered, her face white and set, a shudder running 
through her slight frame. 

“Your life?” he echoed, still mystified. “One would 
think you feared assassination!” 

She made no answer, but, pale to her lips, she held 
her breath. The flunkey in blue re-entered the room, 
bearing a telegram upon a salver. His mistress took 
it and, tearing open the folded pale drab paper, read 
its contents. 

“No reply,” she said; and the man, bowing, with- 
drew. 

“Nino,” she exclaimed in a voice of deep earnest- 
ness when the servant had gone, “you may think it 
extraordinary, but for your sake, because I love no 
other man but yourself, I have resolved to risk my 
life and free myself. This telegram makes it impera- 
tive that we should leave again for England to-night. 
You have shown trust in me ; you do not believe all 
the idle tales gossips have uttered. I love you, Nino. 
If I prove victor, I gain your affection, and happiness 
always with you. If I lose, then I die, unwillingly, 
but nevertheless in the confidence that to the end you 
trusted me.” 

“No, no!” he cried fiercely. “You shall not die! 
You shall never be taken from me! I adore you, 
Gemma ! God knows I love you, darling !” 

“Then you will never doubt me — never !” she cried, 
clinging closely to him, and raising her beautiful face 
to his. “You will not doubt me even if, to gain my 
end, I feign love for another. To him, my kisses shall 
be Judas-kisses, my smiles mockery, my lips venom, 
my embrace the chilling embrace of death. Hear 
me!” she cried wildly. “I go to England with a 
purpose — a vendetta complete and terrible which I 
will accomplish by hatred — or, failing that, by love. 
Both will be equally fatal,” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


ON THE NIGHT WIND 

“You still wear your ring, I see,” Malvano exclaimed 
with a merry twinkle in his eyes one morning a fort- 
night later, while Gemma was sitting at breakfast at 
Lyddington with Nenci and his wife. The thin-faced, 
black-haired man had rejoined his wife suddenly a 
few days before, and since Gemma had returned they 
had formed quite a merry quartette. She had satis- 
factorily explained her sudden disappearance, and had 
concocted a clever story of complications regarding 
her estate to account for her journey to Italy. Both 
men, knowing she was “wanted” by the Italian police, 
marvelled at her audacity in going back and her 
adroitness in evading arrest. 

“I don't always wear the ring,” she answered, raising 
her hand and contemplating it. 

“Let me see,” exclaimed Nenci, who was seated 
beside her. 

In response she handed it to him. It was unusually 
large for a lady, but of antique design. In the centre 
was a large oval turquoise, around which were set 
two rows of diamonds, all of beautiful colour and 
lustre, while the gold which encircled the finger was 
much thicker than usual, the whole forming a rather 
massive but extremely handsome ornament. 

Nenci held it for a moment, admiring it with the 

*53 


2 54 


On the Night Wind 


eye of a connoisseur, for by trade he was a jeweller, 
although he had performed, among other duties, those 
of waiter in a City restaurant. He declared at once 
that the diamonds were dirty beneath their settings, 
and, rising from the table, scrutinized it closely at the 
window. 

“I’ll clean it for you to-day, if you like,” he said 
when he returned to his seat. “It is very dull and 
dusty.” 

She thanked him, and he placed it beside his plate. 

“Ah!” exclaimed the Doctor suddenly, with a 
glance full of meaning. “That was the marriage ring, 
wasn’t it?” 

Nenci glanced across at him quickly and frowned 
— a gesture of displeasure which Gemma failed to 
notice. 

“Yes,” she answered rather harshly; “it was the 
marriage ring — if you like so to term it. I scarcely 
ever wear it, because it brings back too many painful 
memories. The bond has been galling enough — 
Heaven knows !” 

“I thought you had no remorse. You always de- 
clared you had none,” Nenci remarked. “But since 
you’ve known that confounded lover of yours you’ve 
been a changed woman.” 

“Changed for the better, I hope,” she retorted. “Do 
you think it possible that I can wear that ring without 
remembering a certain night in Livorno — the night 
when all my evil fortune fell upon me?” 

Nenci laughed superciliously. 

“Come,” he said. “You’re growing sentimental. 
That’s the worst of being love-sick. When a woman 
of genius loves, she always throws common sense to 
the winds.” 

Her brows contracted for an instant, but, too dis- 
creet to exhibit annoyance, she merely joined in his 
laughter, and, with skilful tact so characteristic of her, 
answered — 


On the Night Wind 


255 


"Ah, my dear Lionello, you seem to have forgotten 
our old Tuscan saying, ‘L'amore avvicina gli uomini 
agli angeli ed al Cielo ; poiche il paradiso scende con 
l'amore in noi.' " 

"She's had you there," exclaimed the Doctor 
merrily. "Gemma isn't the person upon whom to 
work off witticisms." As he sat at table, Malvano 
looked the very picture of good health and spirits, 
ruddy, well-shaven, and spruce in his rough tweed 
riding-coat and gaiters, for, the roads being heavy 
and wet, he had resolved to ride his round that 
morning instead of driving. Only the day previous 
he had been attending upon the customers at the 
Bonciani, his ears ever open, and, arriving back at 
Lyddington by the last train from London, he had 
been a long time closeted with Nenci, prior to going 
to bed. The two men had held a long consultation, 
the nature of which Gemma was unable to determine, 
but it was evident from her close observation of their 
demeanour that morning that they had resolved upon 
some line of immediate action. 

La Funaro was now playing a dangerous game. 

Calm, silent, watchful, ever ready to listen to their 
nefarious plans, and even making suggestions of 
deeper cunning and a vengeance more terrible, she 
had remained there acting a double part with a skill 
that few other women could accomplish. But her 
previous training in the wiles of diplomacy and 
espionage under the crafty, far-seeing Montelupo 
now held her in good stead. She could conceal all 
her woman's pity and forbearance, all her repugnance 
at the terrible plans which were so calmly discussed, 
and with them grow enthusiastic at the thought of 
what was to follow. Hers was a strange personality, 
a curious blending of the grave with the gay. The 
mask she wore as a heartless, abandoned woman was 
absolutely without a flaw. 

That day Nenci spent most of his hours in the 


256 


On the Night Wind 


Doctor’s study, the room wherein no one was allowed 
to enter. Sallow-faced, unshaven, wild-haired, he was 
so striking a figure that the Doctor had advised him 
not to go into the village, as his presence would be at 
once remarked. Therefore, when Malvano was absent, 
he amused himself in chatting to the assistant at 
work making up mixtures in the dark little room 
beyond the surgery, in reading in the room, half- 
study, half-laboratory, which Malvano reserved to 
himself, or in strolling about the extensive grounds 
walled in against the vulgar gaze. 

Gemma that day idled over magazines and news- 
papers in the morning-room until luncheon, when 
the Doctor came in, cold and half famished, with an 
appetite which did justice to his truly British appear- 
ance. Afterwards she passed the afternoon in desul- 
tory gossip with Mrs. Nenci, while the two men went 
to smoke ; and in the evening, when coffee was served 
in the drawing-room, she played and sang to them 
“Duormo, Carme,” “Surriento bello!” the humorous 
“Don Saverio,” and other pieces, while Malvano, in 
his usually buoyant spirits, fetched his mandolino and 
accompanied her, until the sweet music and the 
passionate words brought back to each of them 
memories of their own fair, far-off land. 

About ten, Mrs. Nenci and Gemma retired, and 
that night the woman, whom all Italy knew as “La 
Funaro,” knelt in the silence of her chamber long 
and earnestly before her ivory crucifix, praying for 
courage and for release. Meanwhile, the two men 
proceeded to the Doctor’s study, turning the key in 
the door after them. The small place, with its shutters 
closed and barred, smelt overpoweringly of pungent 
chemicals, the centre table being laden with bottles, 
test-tubes, retorts, a crucible beneath which a small 
spirit-lamp was burning, and a host of sundries, which 
plainly showed that experiments were in progress. 
At the wall opposite was a side-table upon which a 


On the Night Wind 257 

small vice had been fixed, while beside it lay several 
files and other tools. 

Both men threw off their coats and turned up their 
shirt-cuffs, Malvano taking his seat in the centre of 
his chemical appliances, while his companion com- 
menced work at the small side-table. 

Nenci was smoking a cigarette when they entered, 
but at sign of the Doctor at once extinguished it. 

“Have you given Gemma back her ring?” Malvano 
inquired as they sat down to work. The reason the 
Doctor always locked himself within that room was 
evident. He was making experiments in secret. 

“Yes; I gave it her just before dinner,” the other 
answered. 

“You cleaned it — eh?” the Doctor said, with a 
grim smile. 

“Yes,” the other replied briefly. 

“It seems a pity — a great pity !” Malvano exclaimed 
in a tone of regret. “Is there no other way ?” 

“None,” Nenci answered firmly. “She knows too 
much. Besides, I have suspicions.” 

“Of what?” 

“That she may play us false,” the sallow-faced man 
replied. “Remember, she still loves that man Army- 
tage — the devil take him !” 

“Well,” Malvano sighed, “it’s the only way, I sup- 
pose ; but it's hard — very hard on a woman whose 
life has been wrecked as hers has.” 

“Misericordia ! my dear fellow,” cried Nenci 
impatiently. “Surely you won't turn chicken- 
hearted after all this time? You've never shown the 
white feather yet.” 

The Doctor remained silent, and turning in his 
chair, bent over the small crucible beneath which 
the blue flame was burning; while his companion, 
casting a keen half-suspicious glance in his direction, 
also turned to the small vice fixed to his table and 
commenced work.” 


258 


On the Night Wind 


A long time elapsed in almost complete silence, so 
intent were both on what they were doing. Once — 
only once — did Malvano refer again to the subject of 
Gemma's ring. 

“Is she actually wearing it now?" he inquired. 

“She did at dinner, I noticed," Nenci answered. 
“But whether she wears her rings at night, I don't 
know," he laughed. 

“Isn't it — well — dangerous ?" 

“Dangerous! Not at all," his companion replied 
impatiently. “She suspects nothing, absolutely noth- 
ing." 

Again they lapsed into unbroken silence. 

Fully an hour went by, when Nenci, rising, still in 
his shirt-sleeves, folded his arms, and exclaimed in a 
tone of satisfaction and confidence — 

“At last, my dear fellow ! I’ve worked it out com- 
pletely. Failure has become absolutely impossible." 

Malvano, still seated in his chair, leaned back and 
contemplated with admiration the object which his 
companion had placed before him — an exquisite little 
marble bust of King Humbert of Italy. It was only 
about eighteen inches high, but a faithful and beauti- 
fully executed copy of that celebrated head by the re- 
nowned Pisan sculptor, Fontacchiotti, which is so 
prominent a figure in the centre of the great reception 
hall of the Quirinal at Rome. Plaster replicas of this 
bust can be bought everywhere throughout Italy for 
half a franc, and are to be found in most houses of the 
loyal, while larger ones stand in every court of jus- 
tice. But this miniature reproduction before the Doc- 
tor was really an admirable work of art, one such as 
connoisseur would admire. 

Nenci had not chiselled it, but had apparently 
been doing something to its small base of polished 
malachite. The hand that had succeeded in reproduc- 
ing the features so exactly was without doubt a 
master-hand. On the table where the sallow-faced 


On the Night Wind 


259 


man had been working stood two other busts exactly 
similar in every detail, both in little cases of polished 
wood, lined with crimson velvet, and each bearing the 
royal monogram in gilt upon its base, exactly similar 
to the one in the Quirinal. 

“It's excellent. The Gobbo has certainly turned 
them out marvellously well," the Doctor observed. 

“He's a genius," the other said enthusiastically. 
“The reproduction is so exact that detection is abso- 
lutely impossible. Look !" And taking up a photograph 
of a miniature bust standing upon a carved shelf 
against a frescoed wall, they both compared it with the 
one before them. “Do you see that small chip in the 
base?" Nenci said, pointing to the picture. “The Gob- 
bo has even reproduced that." 

“A wonderful piece of work," Malvano acquiesed. 
“Very neat, and very pretty." 

“After it leaves our hands it won't want many ser- 
vants to keep it dusted," his companion observed 
grimly. “You see, the base being circular is made to 
move," he added, taking the little ornament in his 
hand. “You twist it slightly — so, and the thing is 
done. You see those two scratches across the stone. 
The base must be so turned as to join them. And' 

then to the very instant — well " And he broke off 

without concluding his sentence. 

“It will strike the half-hour, eh ?" the Doctor sug- 
gested with a laugh. 

The other raised his shoulders and outspread his 
palms. Then, regarding his handiwork with the keen- 
est satisfaction, he thrust his hands deep into his pock- 
ets, and, leaning against the mantelshelf, gaily 
hummed the popular Neapolitan chorus — 

Pecche. N dringhete-ndringhete-ndra.” 

Tutte venene a bevere cca, 

Mmiez’ ’o mare nu scoglio nee sta ! 

“ Pecche. Ndringhete-ndringhete-ndra 

The Doctor, with fingers stained yellow by the 


260 


On the Night Wind 


acids he had been mixing, the fumes of which filled the 
small den almost to suffocation, took up the beautiful 
little bust and examined its green polished base with 
critical eye, turning it over and over, and weighing it 
carefully in his hand. 

“Devilish cunningly contrived/’ he said. “It’s a pity 
it must be sacrificed. But I suppose it must.” 

“Of course,” Nenci said quickly. “We must com- 
plete our experiments and ascertain that it actually 
strikes true. Is it quiet enough yet to try, do you 
think?” 

Malvano rose. The trousers he wore were old and 
burned brown where corrosive liquids had fallen upon 
them, his hair was ruffled, and his face dirty, as if 
smoke-blackened. 

“I hope the thing won’t create too much fuss,” he 
said in an apprehensive tone. 

“Leave all that to me,” his companion answered 
confidently; and taking the bust, he carefully un- 
screwed its malachite base, revealing a cavity wherein 
rested a small square receptacle, oblong and deep, 
something of the shape of a large-sized snuff-box. 
It was secured in its place by two springs, which, when 
released, allowed the box to fall out. Taking it up and 
opening it, he said to his companion — 

“Here you are. Fill it up while I arrange the 
tube.” 

Then, while the Doctor carefully filled the box with 
some greyish-white powder from a tiny green glass 
bottle on the table, Nenci took up a tube of thin glass 
about an inch long, one of the two or three which Mal- 
vano had just filled with acid and hermetically sealed 
|by the aid of his spirit-lamp and blow-pipe. This he 
carefully inserted in the opening, afterwards replac- 
ing the closed box of grey compound, securing it deep- 
ly in its place by the two little steel springs. 

Again he placed it upon the table, and, retreating a 
few steps, stood admiring it. 


On the Night Wind 


261 


“The reproductions are all absolutely perfect/' he 
observed. “ We've only now to prove that our calcula- 
tions are correct. Come, let's go. If anybody meets 
us, they’ll think you've been called out to some urgent 
case. Therefore we're safe enough." 

“Very well," the Doctor agreed; and both put on 
their coats and went out, Nenci with the bust covered 
carefully beneath the long ulster he assumed in the 
hall. 

Noiselessly they let themselves out by the servants' 
entrance, crossed the large paved yard to the stables, 
and, finding a spade, the Doctor hid it beneath his 
overcoat. Then, crossing the lawn, they passed 
through a gap in the boundary fence, and were soon 
skirting a high hedgerow, proceeding towards the 
open country, crossing field after field until about 
twenty minutes later they paused at a lonely spot. 
The place where they halted was so dark that they 
could scarcely see one another, but the mossy, marshy 
ground was soft beneath their feet; therefore the 
Doctor, knowing the country well, suggested that 
this was the spot where the experiment should take 
place. His companion at once acquiesced, and the 
Doctor, speaking in a low undertone, drove his spade 
deep into the earth, and worked away digging a hole, 
although he could scarce see anything in that pitch 
darkness. 

Presently Nenci, placing the bust upon the ground, 
boldly struck a match, and by its fickle light ascer- 
tained the depth of the hole. Malvano was still 
working away, fearful lest they should be discovered, 
the perspiration dropping from his brow in great 
beads. 

“I think that's deep enough," he said after some 
minutes had elapsed. Then, striking another vesta, 
he glanced intently at his watch to ascertain the exact 
time. He handed the Doctor the matches, asking him 
to strike another, and by its aid held the bust upside 


262 


On the Night Wind 


down and moved the base very carefully round. 
When at last he had placed it at the exact point, he 
knelt and slowly lowered it into the hole which had 
been dug. Both men, working like moles in the dark, 
quickly replaced the earth, Nenci stamping it down 
with his feet. At risk of detection — for a lighted 
match can be seen a long way on a dark night — they 
struck two more vestas in order that they might the 
more completely hide the beautiful little work of art 
upon which Nenci had been engaged so many hours 
that day. 

When it had been entirely covered, and the ploughed 
land rearranged, both men retreated rather hurriedly 
across a couple of fields, and at the old weather-worn 
stile stood and waited, peering back into the darkness. 

The chimes of a distant church sounded over the 
hills; then the dead silence of the night fell again un- 
broken, save for the mournful sighing of the wind. 
For fully five minutes they waited, uttering no word. 

“It’s failed,” Malvano at last exclaimed disappoint- 
edly, in an excited half-whisper. 

“I tell you it can’t fail,” the other answered quickly. 
“I ought to know something of such contrivances.” 

Malvano muttered some words expressive of doubt, 
but scarce had they left his lips when of a sudden 
there was a blood-red flash, a loud report, and tons of 
earth and stones shot skyward in the darkness, some 
falling unpleasantly close to them. 

“Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the Doctor. “It’s terri- 
ble ! By Heaven, it is !” 

“Nothing could withstand that,” Nenci observed en- 
thusiastically, with an air of complete satisfaction. “I 
told you it was absolutely deadly.” 

The report had caused the earth to tremble where 
they stood, and, borne upon the night wind, had no 
doubt been heard for miles around. Losing no time, 
they sped quickly forward towards the spot, and there 
in the gloom discerned that a great oak in the vicinity 


On the Night Wind 


263 


had been shattered, its branches hanging torn and 
broken, while at the spot where the little bust had been 
buried was a wide, deep, funnel-shaped hole. Some 
great hazel bushes in the vicinity had been torn up by 
the roots and hurled aside, while on every hand was 
ample evidence of the terrific and irresistible force of 
the explosion. 

“The strength of the compound is far greater than I 
ever imagined ! It’s frightful !” exclaimed the Doc- 
tor, gazing around half fearfully. “But let's get back, 
or some one, attracted by the report, may be astir. 
What will people think when it's discovered in the 
morning ?” 

“They'll only believe that lightning has done it,” 
Nenci said airily as, thrusting their hands into their 
overcoat pockets, they retraced their steps, bending 
against the icy wind sweeping across the open land. 

In passing back across the lawn both were too pre- 
occupied with their own thoughts to detect that be- 
hind the privet hedge was a crouching figure, and that 
the person so concealed had probably watched all their 
myterious movements and taken the keenest interest 
in their extraordinary midnight experiment. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE TRICK OF A TRICKSTER 

One afternoon, a week later. Gemma was idling in her 
cozy private sitting-room at the Hotel Victoria. She 
had returned there in an involuntary manner, because 
it was the only hotel she knew in London. It had 
been a wet, dismal day, and by three o'clock it had 
become so dark that she had been compelled to 
switch on the electric light in order to see to write. 
During two hours she had not risen, but had continued 
covering sheet after sheet of foolscap with her fine 
angular handwriting. She wrote with an air of one 
accustomed to write, folding down the left-hand edge 
of her paper so as to create a margin, and writing on 
one side of the sheet only. Before commencing, she 
had several times read through a long and apparently 
deeply interesting letter, making careful notes upon 
it before commencing. Then, drawing her chair closer 
to the table, she took up her pen and wrote away at 
express speed, now and then halting to reflect, but 
quickly resuming until she had filled a dozen folios. 
At last she concluded, abruptly, and without signature, 
afterwards leaning back in her little Chippendale 
armchair, turning over the numbered pages, and 
reading through what she had written. When she 
had finished, she paused and looked straight before 
her blankly. Her lips moved, but no sound escaped 
264 


The Trick of a Trickster 265 

them. Presently she took from her dressing-bag open 
beside her a large linen-lined blue envelope, whereon 
was printed in Italian, “Private. — To His Excellency 
the Marquis Montelupo, Minister of Foreign Affairs, 
Rome. ,, Into this she placed what she had written, 
afterwards sealing it at each corner and in the centre, 
in the manner the Italian Administration of Posts re- 
quires insured letters to be secured. 

This done, she paused, resting her head wearily 
upon her hands as if tired out. Suddenly there was 
a loud rap at the door, and one of the hotel message- 
boys entered with a card. 

“Show him up at once,” Gemma answered in her 
broken English, after she had glanced at the name; 
and a few minutes later a sour-faced, middle-aged 
Italian entered, bowing. 

“Good evening, Califano,” she said. “It is quite 
ready;” and she handed him the secret despatch. 
“You leave for Rome to-night — eh?” 

“Si — Signora Contessa,” the man answered. “I 
arrived in London only an hour ago, and I leave again 
subito. The Marquis has sent me expressly for 
this.” 

“Then see that he gets it at the earliest possible mo- 
ment,” she said quickly. “It is of the utmost secrecy 
and importance.” 

“I quite understand, Signora Contessa,” the man 
courteously replied, carefully placing the envelope in 
the breast-pocket of his heavy frieze overcoat. “His , 
Excellency has already given me instructions.” 

“Va bene. Then go. Make all haste, for every hour 
lost may place Italy in greater jeopardy. Remember 
that your early arrival in Rome is absolutely impera- 
tive.” She spoke authoritatively, and it was evident 
that they were not strangers. 

“I shall not lose an instant,” answered the Minister's 
private messenger. “The Contessa has no further 
commands?” he added inquiringly. 


266 


The Trick of a Trickster 


“None,” she answered briefly. “Arivederci !” 

“Arivederci, Signora Contessa,” he replied; and a 
moment later Gemma found herself again alone. 

“God forgive me!” she murmured as she paced the 
room wildly agitated. “It’s the only way — the only 
way! -I have transgressed before man and before 
Heaven in order to free myself from this hateful tie 
of heinous sin; I have risked all in order to gain 
happiness with the man I love. And if I fail” — she 
paused, pale-faced, haggard-eyed, shuddering — “if I 
fail,” she went on in a changed voice, “then I must 
take my life.” 

She threw herself into a chair before the fire, and 
was silent for a long time. The dressing-bell sounded, 
but she took no heed; she had no appetite. The 
crowded table d'hote, with its glare and colour 
and chatter, jarred upon her highly-strung nerves. 
She had dined in the great gilded saloon the night 
before, and had resolved not to do so again. She 
would have a little soup and a cutlet brought to her 
room. 

At that moment she was calmly, deliberately con- 
templating suicide. 

She sat in the low chair, her elbows on her knees, 
gazing gloomily into the fire. The loose gown of pale 
lilac silk, with deep lace at the collar and cuffs, suited 
her fair complexion admirably, although it imparted 
to her a wan appearance, and made her look older 
than she really was, while the tendrils of her gold- 
brown hair, straying across her brow, gave her a wild, 
wanton look. Even as she sat, her eyes fixed upon 
the leaping flames, hers was still a countenance frail, 
childlike in its softness, purity, and innocence of 
expression — a face perfect in its symmetry, and one in 
which it was difficult to conceive that any evil could 
lurk. 

The diamonds upon her fingers, sparkling in the 
fitful firelight, caught her gaze. She looked long and 


The Trick of a Trickstep 


267 


earnestly at the strange ring of turquoise and 
diamonds upon her right hand, and the sad memories 
it recalled caused her to sigh deeply, as they ever did. 
Again she remained plunged in a deep debauch of 
melancholy, until suddenly she was aroused from her 
reverie by a loud knocking at her door and her hotel 
number being shouted by the lad in buttons. 

“Gentleman wishes to see you, ma'am,” the 
youngster said, handing her another card. 

She glanced quickly at the name, then rising 
slowly, answered — 

“Show him up.” 

Her breath seemed to catch in her throat, but to 
her cheeks there came a slight flush, whether of ex- 
citement or of anger it was difficult to determine. Her 
brows were knit, and, as she glanced at herself in the 
mirror, she felt dissatisfied with herself, because she 
knew she looked haggard and ugly. 

As she turned away from the glass with a gesture 
of determination, Frank Tristram entered. 

“Well,” she inquired, turning quickly upon him the 
moment they were alone. “Why have you the audac- 
ity to seek me?” 

“Hear me out, Gemma, before you grow angry!” 
he exclaimed, advancing towards her. “I have come to 
crave your forgiveness;” and he stood with bent head 
before her, motionless, penitent. 

“My forgiveness? You ask that, after your at- 
tempt to take my life?” she retorted. 

“I was mad, then,” he declared quickly. “Forgive 
me. I ask your forgiveness in order that one you know 
may be made happy.” 

“I don't understand you.” 

“Carmenilla. I'm going to marry her,” he ex- 
plained briefly. 

“To marry Carmenilla !” she exclaimed, surprised. 

He nodded. “Tell me that you forgive my madness 
that night,” he urged. “Remember that both you 


268 


The Trick of a Trickster 


and I are hemmed in by enemies on every side ; that our 
interests are exactly identical. In return for your 
forgiveness, I am ready to assist you in any way pos- 
sible” 

Her clear eyes rested upon him with unwavering 
gaze. 

“And you ask my forgiveness,” she said in a tone of 
contempt at length. “You — who murdered Vittorina 
— a helpless, friendless girl.” 

“I — murdered her!” he cried uneasily, with a look 
of abject terror. This denunciation was utterly unex- 
pected. “What made you suspect that?” 

“To any one who had knowledge of the facts, it’s 
quite plain,” she answered boldly. “Ah ! do not try to 
deceive me. The police were in ignorance; therefore 
they could have no clue, and could make no arrest. I, 
however, am aware of the reason poor Vittorina’s life 
was taken; I know that her presence was detrimental 
to all our plans, and that she was enticed here, to Lon- 
don, in order that she might die. It is useless for you 
to protest your innocence to me.” Her face was hard, 
her eyes fixed immovably upon his. 

He shrank beneath her searching glance, and stood 
before her with bent head in silence. 

“You cannot deny that you had a hand in the 
crime?” she went on relentlessly. “You, a murderer, 
ask my forgiveness!” 

“Ah, Gemma,” he cried hoarsely, “forgive me.” 
Then, without heeding the terrible denunciation she 
had levelled against him, continued, “We have both 
suffered much, you and I ; you, perhaps, more than 
myself, because you have earned ill repute, and been 
compelled to pose as an adventuress. But those who 
know you are well aware that you have always been 
an honest woman, that your so-called adventures have 
only been taken in order to act the ignoble part which 
you were compelled to act, and that you are in every 
way worthy the love of an upright man like Armytage, 


The Trick of a Trickster 269 

Forgive me,” he urged in a low, intense voice, stretch- 
ing forth his hand. “Forgive me !” 

Her troubled breast heaved and fell. In that instant 
she remembered what the black-robed nuns had told 
her long ago at San Paolo della Croce — that the first 
step towards penitence was forgiveness. She looked 
straight into the face of the man before her for several 
moments in hesitation, then at last, in a low, faltering 
tone, said — 

“The evil you tried to do me I forgive freely; but — 
but I cannot take the hand of a murderer ;” and she 
turned away suddenly, her silken gown sweeping past 
him where he stood. 

“Then you will allow me to marry Carmenilla? 
You will not denounce me as one who tried to take 
your life he cried eagerly following her a few 
paces. 

“Your secret will be mine, ,, she answered coldly. 
“I have forgotten, and bear you no malice.” 

She was standing beside the fire, once again idly con- 
templating her rings. The diamonds of the quaint one, 
with its torquoise centre, seemed to glitter with extreme 
brilliance and with an evil glint that night. 

Presently Tristram advanced swiftly, almost noise- 
lessly, until he reached her side. Then again he prof- 
fered his hand, asking — 

“May we not be friends?” 

“We are no longer enemies,” she answered, disre- 
garding his invitation to exchange the hand-clasp of 
friendship. “This interview is painful,” she added. “I 
have forgiven you. Surely that is sufficient ?” 

“I believed you to be my enemy — I thought you had 
denounced me to the police on that night when my mad 
passion got the mastery,” he said apologetically. “I 
assure you that I have deeply regretted ever since.” 

“It is past,” she said in a chilly voice. “To recall it 
is needless.” 

After reflecting for some moments, he commenced 


270 The Trick of a Trickster 

to protest his innocence of the crime she attributed to 
him; but with a gesture of impatience she held up 
both her hands, as if to shut out his presence from her 
gaze, and then slowly he left the room without further 
word. 

Afterwards she stood, a slim, graceful figure, leaning 
upon the mantelshelf, gazing down into the fire. Now 
and then sighs escaped her; once a shudder ran over 
her, for her thoughts were still weird and morbid. She 
was debating whether death by her own hand was not 
preferable to the strange life she had been for the past 
two years compelled to lead, still dubious as to whether 
at last she could secure happiness beside the young 
Englishman whom she loved with all her soul, and for 
whom she had risked her life. 

Through ten days she remained alone in the great 
hotel, and found London horrible. She went out but 
little, as the weather was gloomy and wet, and spent 
her time in her warm private sitting-room in reading, 
or doing fancy needlework. She had written to Army- 
tage, and received an immediate response, which set 
her mind at ease. He had urged that he might be al- 
lowed to see her, but she had replied firmly in the neg- 
ative. If she desired him to come to her, she would 
telegraph. In a couple of houre he could be at her 
side. Fettered as she was hand and foot, knowing that 
her lover’s enemies sought his life, yet without power 
to save him, she existed in those days in constant dread 
lest they should discover his presence in England and 
carry out their design. The life of a man is just as 
easily taken in England as it is in Italy, and she well 
knew her associates to be desperate, and that they 
would now hesitate at nothing in order to guarantee 
success of their plans. 

One night, after she had been at the hotel about a 
fortnight, she dressed her hair as carefully as she 
could, possessing no maid, and putting on a pretty 
evening gown of pale blue, cut low and filled with 


The Trick of a Trickster 


271 


fine old lace drawn round the throat in the manner 
of evening dresses in vogue in Italy, she wound 
around her head a pale-blue silken scarf she had 
purchased in Livorno, one of those worn by the 
Livornese girls on festa days, and, assuming a rich 
cape trimmed with otter, drove in a hansom to Lady 
Marshfield’s, in Sussex Square. 

The manservant, without taking in her name, 
showed her at once to the drawing-room. He had 
no doubt received instructions. Upon the threshold 
she stood for an instant holding her breath, as if in 
fear; then, bracing herself for an effort, entered the 
room, a striking figure, proud, erect, handsome, the 
diamond crescent sparkling in her hair, her silken 
skirts sweeping behind her with loud frou-frou. At 
that moment she was La Funaro, the notorious woman 
whose striking costumes had so often been the envy 
and admiration of fashionable Italy. 

In the great apartment there had assembled, in a 
group near the fire, the Doctor, the Gobbo, Romanelli, 
and Nenci. All four were in well-cut evening clothes, 
and were chatting affably, her ladyship, ugly, yet 
affecting youth, holding a little court about her. On 
Gemma’s entrance there was an instant’s silence. 
Then with almost one voice they welcomed her, 
crying, “Viva, La Funaro !” 

Smiling, she shook hands with each in turn, and 
sank on the silken settee beside her hostess. 

“We are still waiting for one other.” her ladyship 
said, glancing at the clock. “He is late.” After- 
wards, turning to Gemma, the eccentric old woman 
began to pay her all sorts of compliments in very fair 
Italian, while the men stood together smoking and 
chatting, sometimes in mysterious undertones. 

At last the person for whom they had apparently 
been waiting entered, hot and flushed. It was Tris- 
tram. He shook hands with all, except with Gemma. 
To her he merely bowed. 


272 


The. Trick of a Trickster 


Lady Marshfield, a few minutes later, rose and 
passed into the smaller inner room — a signal for her 
guests to follow. Then, when they had entered, the 
door was locked, Romanelli alone remaining outside 
in the drawing-room to guard against the possibility 
of any of the servants acting as eavesdropper. A table 
had been placed in the centre of the apartment, and 
around this they at once assembled, while Nenci, 
opening the lady’s dressing-bag which he carried, 
took therefrom a small oblong box of polished oak, 
which he sat upon the table, afterwards displaying 
the exquisite replica of the bust of the reigning 
sovereign of Italy. 

“Beautiful !” they all cried with one accord. 
“Nothing could be better !” 

“It’s action is marvellous,” Malvano explained. 
“We have already tried it. The effect is frightful. 
When set, it contains explosives enough to reduce 
every house in this street to ruins.” 

They looked at one another, and shuddered. 

“It’s really very inoffensive-looking,” her ladyship 
remarked, raising her glasses, deeply interested. “I 
hope it isn’t charged !” 

“Oh dear, no,” Nenci laughed, taking it in his 
hand. “I’ve brought it here to show how the 
mechanism is contrived and bending towards her, 
he opened its malachite base, showing the empty 
receptacle for the explosive compound, the hole for 
the tiny tube of acid, and the small clockwork 
mechanism no larger than a watch imbedded deeply 
in cotton-wool, so as to be noiseless. Standing at 
the table, he glanced keenly from one to the other as 
he explained its working. As he handled the bust 
tenderly, his keen black eyes seemed to shine with an 
evil light. 

When he had concluded, he replaced the mechanical 
portions he had removed, and put the bust back into 
file dressing-bag beside him. 


The Trick of a Trickster 


2 73 


“No, no,” Malvano said, smiling grimly, some 
minutes later. “Don’t hide it away, Lionello. It’s 
well worth our admiration, and does you credit. This 
is the last time we shall have an opportunity of seeing 
it, so let it remain on the table.” 

All joined in a chorus of laughter and approbation, 
and Nenci, fumbling in the bag at his side, reproduced 
it and placed it upon the table in full view of their 
gaze. At that moment Gemma, deep in conversation 
with her ladyship, did not notice that the bust 
was exposed before them, and not until Nenci and 
Malvano had left the room together in order to 
consult with the foppishly dressed young man 
outside in the drawing-room, did she detect its 
presence. 

Then, with a sudden scream of wild alarm, she 
dashed forward, her bare arms raised in despair, 
crying — 

“Look! Look! This is not the bust he showed 
us first, but another! This one is charged! Fly 
quickly — all of you! In another instant this house 
will be a mass of ruins, and we shall all be blown to 
atoms! This is Nenci’s diabolical vengeance!” 

With one accord they sprang from their chairs and 
rushed towards the door. Tristram was the first to 
gain it, and turned the handle. 

“God ! It’s locked !” he shrieked. 

Nenci, the sinister-faced man who, with his two in- 
famous companions, had secured them in that room 
with the frightful engine of destruction in their 
midst, had ingeniously escaped. Speechless, with 
faces blanched, they exchanged quick apprehensive 
glances of terror. Those moments were full of ter- 
rible suspense. All knew that they were doomed, 
and appalled, rooted to the spot by unspeakable 
terror, none dared to move a muscle or touch that 
exquisite little bust upon the table. Each second 
ticked out clearly by the Sevres clock upon the 


274 


The Trick of a Trickster 


mantelshelf brought them nearer to an untimely and 
frightful end; nearer to that fatal moment when the 
tiny glass tube must be shattered by the internal 
mechanism, and thus cause an explosion which would 
in an instant launch them into eternity. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


ENTRAPPED 

As all drew back aghast and terrified from the little 
face of carved stone, Gemma, who had tried the door 
only to discover the truth of Tristram’s appalling 
assertion, dashed instantly back to the table, and, 
regardless of the imminent risk she ran, took the 
small image in her hands. 

“No, No!” they cried with one voice, haunted 
by the fear that any second it might explode and 
blow them out of all recognition. “Don’t touch it! 
don’t touch it!” 

“On the night when the two men completed their 
hellish invention, I watched through the shutters 
unseen,” she cried. “I saw Nenci explain how this 
deadly thing was charged and the mode in which it 
was set. See!” 

In an instant all had grouped around her, as, turning 
the bust upside down, she eagerly examined it beneath 
the shaded lamp. The scratch running across the 
malachite base and up the outer edge of the removable 
portion was, she saw, contiguous to a mark higher up. 
Nenci had turned the circular base until the ends of 
the almost imperceptible line had joined. 

Another instant and nothing could save them. 

With trembling hands Gemma grasped it, as Nenci 

275 


276 


Entrapped 


had done on the night when she had watched, and 
with a quick wrench tried to turn it back. 

It would not move ! 

Next second, however, she twisted it in the opposite 
direction. As she did so there was a harsh grating 
sound, as of steel cutting into stone, a crack, as though 
some strong spring had snapped; and then all knew 
that the mechanism of the devilish invention had been 
disordered, and the frightful catastrophe thereby 
averted. 

She bent down, opening Nenci’s bag, and took 
therefrom a second bust, exclaiming — 

“He tricked us cleverly. Fortunately, however, I 
detected the difference in the markings of that green 
stone, or ere this we might each one of us have been 
} dead.” Then, placing the two busts side by side, 
she pointed out the difference in the vein of the 
malachite which had attracted her attention, and 
thus caused her to make the astounding declaration 
which had held them petrified. 

“You've saved us!” the Gobbo cried, addressing 
her. 

“These men must not escape,” Gemma cried 
determinedly. “They shall not ! Our lives have 
been endangered by their villainous treachery, and 
they shall not evade punishment.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


“i BEAR WITNESS !’’ 

Next morning Gemma stood at the window of her 
bedroom, looking down upon Northumberland Ave- 
nue. She had breakfasted unusually early, and had 
chosen a dark-green dress trimmed with narrow astra- 
can — one of her Paris-made gowns which she knew 
fitted her perfectly and suited her complexion. She 
had stood before the long mirror in the wardrobe for 
some mimutes, and, with a pride that may always be 
forgiven in a woman, regarded herself with satisfaction. 
They know how to make a woman look her best in 
the Rue de la Paix. 

The recollection of the previous night was, in the 
light of morning, horrifying. After leaving Sussex 
Square, she had stopped her cab at the telegraph- 
office opposite Charing Cross Station, the office being 
open day and night, and had sent a long and urgent 
message to Rome explaining the situation. Already 
a reply reposed in the pocket of her gown, but it was 
unsatisfactory. The private secretary had wired back 
that the Marquis was away at his high-up, antique 
castle of Montelupo, “the Mountain of the Wolf,” 
between Empoli and Signa, in Tuscany. She there- 
fore knew that many hours must elapse ere her 
cypher message was delivered to him. Even his 
reply could not reach her for four hours or so after 
277 


278 


“I bear Witness !” 


it had been despatched from Empoli. But after 
sending the message to Rome, she had also sent one 
to Armytage at Aldworth Court, and was now await- 
ing his arrival. 

Her hands were cold and nervous, her eyes heavy 
and weary, and her face deathly pale and haggard, 
for she had slept but little that night. She saw 
plainly that all her desperate efforts to free herself 
had been in vain. There had been a hitch some- 
where, or that night the whole of that assembly 
at Lady Marshfield's would have been arrested by 
detectives from Scotland Yard, at the instigation of 
Count Castellani, acting under telegraphic orders 
from Rome. Italy would thus have been able to rid 
herself of as desperate a gang of malefactors as 
ever stood in the dock of a criminal court. She had 
kept faith with the Marquis Montelupo, her master, 
and, in order to gain her freedom, had furnished the 
Ministry with full details of the plot. Her freedom 
of action had been promised her in exchange for this 
information, but with the stipulation that the con- 
spirators must be arrested. The Marquis, cunning 
and far-seeing, was well aware that this would en- 
sure greater secrecy, and hold her as his agent until 
the very end. 

No arrest had, however, taken place. All her plans 
had failed utterly, and, in a paroxysm of despair, she 
told herself that she was still, even at that moment, 
as far off gaining her freedom as ever she had been. 
Her tiny white hands clenched themselves in despair. 

“I love him !” she murmured hoarsely. “I love 
him; but Fate always intervenes — always. Shall I 
never be released from this terrible thraldom? I 
pray day and night, and yet ” 

She paused. Her eyes fell upon the small ivory 
crucifix standing upon a pile of books beside her bed. 
She sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and her 
thin white lips moved in fervent prayer. 


“I bear Witness!” 


279 


Suddenly, while her head was still bent upon her 
breast in penitence, as she craved forgiveness for 
violating the oath she had taken to these men who 
sought her death, a master-key was placed in the 
door and the chambermaid entered. 

"‘Pardon, Madame,” the girl exclaimed in French, 
drawing back as soon as she saw her, “I thought 
you had gone out. A gentleman has just been shown 
to your sitting-room, and as waiting.” 

“A gentleman!” Gemma repeated blankly, rising 
to her feet. Then she recollected. It was her lover 
who had come in response to her telegram. What 
could she tell him ? 

“Very well,” she answered. “Fll see him at once;” 
and as the girl withdrew, she stood looking at her- 
self despairingly in the mirror. Again she dare not 
tell him anything. She was still beneath a double 
thraldom of guilt. 

With both her hands she pushed back the mass of 
gold-brown hair from the pale fevered brows, sigh- 
ing ; then, rigid and erect, walked down the corridor 
to her own sitting-room. Her heart beating 
wildly, but with a glad smile upon her face, she 
entered. 

Instantly she halted. Her look of pleasure gave 
place to one of hatred. Her visitor was not Charles 
Armytage, but the man who, only twelve hours 
before, had secured her and her companions within 
that room with the terrible engine of death in their 
midst. It was Lionello Nenci, who stood with his 
back to the window, his hands idly in his pockets. 
His sallow face was that of a man haunted by terror, 
and driven to desperation. His cheeks were pale 
beneath their southern bronze, and his black eyes 
glittered with unnatural fire as he advanced towards 
her. 

“You!” she gasped in withering contempt. “You! 
The mean despicable cur who sought to kill us !” 


28 o 


“I bear Witness!” 


"Yes!” he answered unabashed. "Shut the door. 
I want to speak to you.” 

In involuntary obedience she closed the door, and 
the portiere fell behind her. 

"I should have thought, after your infamous con- 
duct last night, you would not ever dare to face me 
again,” she cried in scorn. "Such treachery is only 
worthy gaol-birds and traitors.” 

"You deserved it,” he laughed roughly. "You 
are one of the latter. It was you,” he went on, 
mercilessly — "you, with your innocent-looking face, 
who gave the whole plot away, who exposed us to 
the Ministry, and put the English police upon us; 
you who sought our arrest and punishment. It is but 
what was to be expected of such a woman as yourself, 
the spy and mistress of Montelupo.” 

"Mistress !” she echoed, in an instant frenzy of pas- 
sion. "I’m not his mistress. I swear Eve never been. 
You know that’s a foul he !” 

"Every one in Italy believes it,” he said, with a 
brutal laugh. "When they know that you were 
implicated in the plot, and gave it away to him, it 
will confirm their suspicions.” 

She looked at him, intense hatred in her glance. 

"And you have come here to tell me this!” she 
cried. "Having failed in your dastardly attempt 
last night, you come here to-day to taunt me with 
the past !” 

"No. The reason I’ve called is to calmly explain 
the position. The police are already upon us, but the 
Doctor and Romanelli have left London. I, unfortu- 
nately, am unable, for I’ve no money,” he added, in 
a whining tone. "I’ve come to throw myself upon 
your generosity ; to ask you for some.” 

"You wish me, the woman whom you denounce as 
a spy and traitor — whom you and your infamous 
companions endeavored to kill — you ask me to 
furnish you with funds so that you may escape the 


I bear Witness !” 


281 


punishment you deserve ?” she cried in scorn, 
amazed at his boldness. “I shall not stir a finger 
to save you,” she answered promptly. 

“Come,” he said. “There’s no time to lose if I’m 
to escape. Remember, I’m the man for whom the 
police of Europe have been searching in vain these 
last two years, ever since I escaped from Elba; and 
if I’m again to evade them, it will be expensive. If 
you’re not prepared to sacrifice yourself, then give me 
money, and let us part. You are rich, and can well 
afford it,” he added. “Come. Take my advice, and 
let the whole thing end here. Assist me this, the last 
time, and I swear to you that I’ll say nothing impli- 
cating you, even if afterwards I’m arrested.” 

“If I give you money, it is on the understanding 
that you will not in future levy blackmail,” she said, 
eyeing the cringing man before her with contempt. 
“Recollect that any communication from you will 
result in your immediate arrest. You know, one 
word from me at the Ministry and the police will 
follow you, wherever you may be.” 

“I agree,” he cried eagerly. 

She drew from her purse three English notes, each 
for five pounds, and handing them to him said — 

“This is all the money I have at the moment, with- 
out drawing a cheque.” 

“It’s not enough — not half enough,” he declared 
in a tone of dissatisfaction, glancing at the clock. 
“There’s little time to lose. A North German 
Lloyd boat sails from Southhampton for New York 
this afternoon, and the train leaves Waterloo at 
noon. This money won’t even buy my passage and 
necessaries.” 

She reflected for an instant, and glanced down 
at her fragile hands. An instant later, in sheer 
desperation, she cried — 

“Then take my rings !” And twisting them one 
by on§ from her fingers, including the antique on$ 


282 


“I bear Witness !" 


of turquoise and diamonds, she laid them, together 
with her brooch, on the little writing-table where 
they were standing. '‘They're worth at least five 
thousand francs," she said. “Take them, sell them, 
do what you like with them, but never let us meet 
again." 

Eagerly he took up one — a beautiful diamond half- 
hoop ring, and glancing at it in admiration, was about 
to place it in his vest-pocket, when there came a loud 
rap at the door, and the message-boy, shouting her 
hotel number, ushered in two men. 

Nenci turned quickly towards the door, and shrank 
back in terror and dismay. 

The men who entered were Tristram and Armytage. 

The face of the latter was dark with determination. 
He had not expected to find Gemma with a stranger ; 
moreover, the fact that her rings and brooch lay upon 
the table between her and her visitor puzzled him. 

“Ah, dearest!" she cried, rushing towards him, her 
nervous hands outstretched. “You have come back 
to me at last — at last !" 

Without taking her proffered hands, he looked 
straight into the sallow, evil face of the Italian. Nenci 
boldly met his gaze. 

“This is the scoundrel who, as Tve just told you, 
endeavoured last night to destroy Gemma, myself, 
and several other persons at Lady Marshfield's!" Tris- 
tram cried, glaring at the black-haired inventor of the 
terrible engine of death. 

“And this," retorted Nenci, pointing at the Captain 
— “this man is a murderer! It was he who killed 
Vittorina Rinaldo!" 

“You're a liar!" Tristram answered, his face livid 
and set. “The evidence against me is circum- 
stantial enough, perhaps, to convict me of the crime, 
but I am innocent — absolutely innocent. I myself 
was the victim of a dastardly plot. Little dreaming 
<?f what was intended, I escorted her from Leghorn 


“I bear Witness! 


283 


to London, and thus unwittingly myself created cir- 
cumstances which were so suspicious as to fasten the 
terrible guilt upon me. But I declare before Heaven 
that I’m in ignorance of both the motive and the 
secret means by which the crime was accomplished !” 

The outlaw laughed a harsh, dry laugh. His de- 
meanour at the first moment of their entry into the 
room had been one of fear. Now he was fiercely 
defiant, and affected amusement at their demeanour. 

“If you can prove your innocence, then do so,” he 
said grimly. “According to the papers, you left the 
cab, entered the bar, spoke to your accomplice, the 
Major, whoever he was, and then escaped by the back 
entrance.” 

“True,” replied the Queen’s messenger. “But 
my hurried flight had nothing whatever to do with 
the murder of Vittorina, nor did my conversation 
with the Major bear upon it in any way whatever. 
I merely expressed surprise at meeting him there 
after leaving him at the station ; and he, too, was 
surprised to see me. Then, while in the bar, I sud- 
denly recollected that, in the hurry of alighting from 
the train, I had left in the carriage a despatch-bag 
given me by one of the messengers of the Embassy in 
Paris to convey to London; and knowing that the 
train would be shunted out, perhaps down to the 
depot at Nine Elms, I made all speed back to Charing 
Cross, where I found that the porter had already dis- 
covered it, and taken it to the lost-property office. I 
had no fear of Vittorina’s safety, for I had already 
given the cabman the address in Hammersmith, and 
every second was of consequence in recovering my 
lost despatches.” 

“But the Major’s photograph was discovered in 
Vittorina’s bag,” Nenci cried in a tone of disbelief. 
“How do you account for that ?” 

“I don’t know. To me, that fact is a mystery, 
although I have since entertained a suspicion that 


284 


“I bear Witness !” 


the Major, when he met me, must have been aware 
that the girl’s life was to be taken. He called upon 
me afterwards, and we were both afraid of arrest 
upon circumstantial evidence. I was aware that he 
was implicated in some shady transactions in the 
City, for he confessed to me his intention of leaving 
England secretly. ,, 

“Your story is ingenious enough,” Nenci replied, 
“but it will never convince a jury of your innocence. 
You can’t clear yourself. It’s absolutely impossible.” 

“One moment,” interrupted Armytage, who, stand- 
ing beside his well-beloved, had been intently watch- 
ing the face of this desperate malefactor during 
this argument — “one moment,” he said cooly. “This 
visit is a very fortuitous circumstance. A face such 
as yours, one never forgets — never. We have met 
before.” 

“I think not, signore,” the other answered, smiling 
with that ineffable politeness which so often nau- 
seates. “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, 
save that I presume you are the affianced husband of 
the Signora Contessa.” 

“But I know you, althouh it isn’t much of a 
pleasure,” Armytage answered quickly, in a voice that 
showed that he was not to be trifled with. “You 
declare that we’ve never met before. Well, I’ll just 
refresh your memory,” he went on, slowly and de- 
liberately. “One night, the night previous to 
leaving for Italy, while passing the Criterion on 
my way from the Junior United Service to the 
Alhambra, I saw a cab stop and my friend Captain 
Tristram alight and enter the bar, when almost 
next moment a man brushed past me. Beneath the 
electric light I saw his face distinctly. I saw him 
raise his hat, mount the step of the cab, shake hands 
cordially with the girl sitting inside the vehicle, and 
at once dart away. I didn’t enter the Criterion, as I 
had an appointment with a man at the Alhambra, and 


“I bear Witness !” 


285 


was late. Next morning, however, when in the train 
between London and Dover, on my way to Italy, I 
read in the paper that the girl I had seen had been 
murdered.” He paused for an instant to watch the 
effect of his words ; then declared, in a voice which 
betrayed no hesitation, “The man who brushed past 
me and mounted on the steps of the cab was you! 
It was you who killed her !” 

The colour died from Nenci’s face. He tried to 
speak. His lips moved, but no sound escaped them. 
This unexpected denunciation fell upon him as a 
blow ; it crushed him and held him speechless, spell- 
bound. 

“Is this really true?” cried the Captain, open- 
mouthed, as astonished as the murderer himself. 

“This man before you was the murderer. To that 
I bear witness !” Armytage replied. 

“She was going to his house at Hammersmith,” 
Tristram said, perplexed. “There must have been 
some motive in killing her before she arrived there.” 

“Of course. It’s easy to discern that such a crime 
allayed all suspicions. No one would dream that the 
man calmly waiting at home expecting her arrival 
was actually the man who murdered her.” 

The dark-faced outlaw, watching the two men with 
covert glance, made a swift movement towards the 
door. But Tristram was too quick for him, and 
springing forward, placed his back against it, say- 
ing— 

“No, when you leave this room you will be accom- 
panied by a constable. It isn't safe to trust you out 
alone.” Then, turning to his old college friend, he 
added, “What you’ve just said, Armytage, has renewed 
life within me, old fellow. I knew I was the victim 
of some foul plot or other, but I never suspected this 
man of being the actual assassin. His character’s 
desperate enough, as witness his mean, dastardly 
attempt upon us last night; but I never dreamed it 


286 


“I bear Witness!” 


possible for a man to commit murder so neatly as 
he did.” 

“You are determined to keep me here?” Nenci 
cried, his eyes glaring savagely like an animal brought 
to bay. 

“I am determined to give you up to the police,” 
Tristram answered. “Remember, I am suspected, and 
I now intend to clear myself.” 

“And risk arrest for the conspiracy.” 

“There’s no proof that I was ever associated with 
you,” the Captain answered. “The word of a 
murderer isn’t worth much.” 

“You are prepared for the revelations that I can 
make?” 

“I’m prepared for anything, so long as you meet 
with your deserts,” the Captain responded. 

For an instant the wretched man, his sallow face 
haunted by a look of unutterable dread, glanced from 
one to the other. Then, convinced that all were 
determined, and realizing that escape was now utterly 
impossible, he stepped forward, and, snatching up from 
the table the antique ring set with the turquoise and 
diamonds, with a quick movement slipped it upon the 
little finger of his left hand. They watched him in 
wonder. 

“You think to have a magnificent revenge,” he 
cried, glaring wildly at them. “But I will cheat you 
yet. Watch!” And with the thumb and finger of 
his right hand he pressed the large turquoise. 

From beneath the ring there escaped a dark red 
bead of blood. 

“Go!” he shrieked hoarsely, his face haggard, 
deathlike. “Go, call the police! Denounce me, do 
■your worst, but you will only take my lifeless body. 
May it be of service to you. This you intended 
should be a fine coup of vengeance. But I’ll cheat 
you yet ! I’ll cheat you — I ” 

“Ring, and call in the police,” Armytage suggested. 


“I bear Witness!” 


287 


“Useless! useless!” the wretched man gasped, his 
face drawn and distorted as, clutching the back of 
a chair, he stood swaying forward slightly. “Can't 
you see that all your carefully-planned revenge is 
unavailing?” 

They regarded him in blank astonishment. Even 
as they looked his face changed, and he was seized 
by convulsions which shook him from head to foot. 

“Can't you see?” he cried wildly. “I've cheated 
you, and I'm dying. On my finger is the death-ring 
— the pretty finger ornament which, when pressed, 
punctures the skin beneath and injects a poison which 
is swift, and to which there is no known antidote.” 

“Heavens!” cried the Captain, glancing at the 
ring the assassin had assumed. “Now that I remem- 
ber, Vittorina wore a ring exactly similar to that ! 
Upon her hand after death was a strange dis- 
colouration which puzzled the doctors. Then she was 
murdered by a simple pressure of the hand, which in- 
flicted a puncture beneath the ring, and the latter, 
being irremovable on accont of the post-mortem 
swelling, the cause of death remained concealed. 
Truly the means by which she was killed were as 
cunning and swift as the manner in which the crime 
was accomplished.” 

The haggard, white-faced culprit stood swaying 
forward, holding the chair, his black eyes starting 
from his head, his parched tongue protruding, his 
lips drawn, his whole appearance horrible. In those 
moments of intense agony a jumble of half-incoherent 
words, like the gibbering of an idiot, escaped him; 
yet from them it seemed as though he were living his 
whole evil life again, and that scenes long since past 
flashed before him, only to be succeeded by this final 
one — more tragic, more terrible, more agonizing than 
them all. 

“I told you that the police should never take me !” 
Jie gasped with extreme difficulty. “Montelupo’s 


288 


“ I bear Witness! ” 


bloodhounds have already scented me to -day, but I’ve 
tricked them as I’ve tricked you. I’m not afraid of 
death. I’m no coward. See !” 

And again he grasped the ring, and, grinding his 
teeth, pressed the tiny steel point therein concealed 
deep into the flesh. 

Then he gave vent to a loud, harsh laugh, meant to 
be derisive, but sounding horrible in combination with 
the death-rattle in his throat. His life was fast ebbing. 
Great beads of perspiration rolled off his white brow. 

Again he tried to speak, but the single word 
“Vittorina,” hoarse and low, was the only one that 
passed his twitching lips. His bright, glassy eyes, 
still flashing a murderous hatred in the agony of 
death, were fixed immovably upon his accuser, when 
suddenly, almost without warning, he was seized with 
frightful convulsions, his jaws set, the light died from 
his face, his legs seemed to give way beneath him, 
and, reeling, he fell headlong to the floor, carrying the 
chair with him. 

Both men in an instant knelt eagerly beside him. 

Tristram quickly unloosened his vest, and placed 
his hand upon his heart. It had already ceased its 
action. 

The subtle Eastern poison — for such it afterwards 
proved to be — had done its work swiftly, completely. 
Lionello Nenci — conspirator, murderer, and outlaw, 
one of the most desperate and dangerous characters 
that Italy has produced during the past decade, and 
the miscreant whose arrest had been stipulated by the 
Marquis Montelupo in his compact with Gemma — was 
dead. 

La Funaro was free. The terrible thraldom which 
had compelled her to act as secret agent of the State 
was for ever ended. 


CHAPTER XXXI 

FIORI D'ARANCIO 

Nearly a year had gone by. 

The strange suicide of an Italian at the Hotel 
Victoria had been regarded merely as a tragic incident 
by readers of newspapers, for no word of the motive 
which led Nenci to take his life had been allowed to 
leak out. 

To the public, the death of Vittorina still remains 
one of London's many mysteries. 

In the few brief months that had elapsed, peace, 
calm and complete, had come to Gemma and to 
Charles Armytage ; for one morning, in the dimly lit, 
old church of Santa Maria Novella, in Florence, and 
afterwards at the office of the British Consul-General 
in the Via Tornabuoni, they had been made man and 
wife. Then, for nearly six months, they had travelled 
in Austria, Switzerland, and Germany, subsequently 
spending the winter in a furnished villa high up on 
the olive-clad hill behind Cimiez, where they were 
visited by Captain Tristram and Carmenilla, who, too, 
had married, and were spending their honeymoon on 
the Riviera. At last, when Carnival had come and 
gone, the season waned, and Nice and Cannes were 
emptying, they, too, left and returned to the great old 
Palazzo Funaro in Florence. 

They had dined tete-a-tete one evening, had strolled 
arm in arm through these great silent chambers which 
289 


2$6 


Fiori d*AranciO 


seemed to speak mutely of the gorgeous pageantry in 
the days when the Medici had ruled Florence, and 
entered the room furnished in modern style — the 
same in which he had a year ago pledged his belief 
in her. 

After the man resplendent in the Funaro livery 
had brought their coffee, Gemma seated herself upon 
the settee beside her husband, and, taking up her 
mandolino, commenced to sing that sweet old Tuscan 
song he loved so well, which has for its chorus — 

“O bello mio adorabile 
Svenire in se mi par 
Vorrei fuggirti rapida, 

Non so come mi far !” 

When she had finished, she was silent, as if in 
hesitation; then, with her clear eyes fixed upon his, 
exclaimed, in very good English — 

“You have trusted me blindly, completely, Nino. 
You married me in face of all the vile libels which 
spread from mouth to mouth ; yet only to-night am I 
free to tell you the truth. My story is a strange — a 
very strange one. Would you like to hear it?” 

“Of course, dearest,” he cried eagerly. “You know 
for months I have longed to know the truth.” 

“Then, you shall know. I will tell you everything,” 
she answered. “When I returned here fresh from the 
convent-school, with unformed girlish ideas, I fancied 
that the King had slighted my family, one of the 
oldest in Tuscany, and, finding myself possessor of this 
place and my father's fortune, became imbued with 
a deep, implacable hatred of the monarchy. I lived 
here with a maiden aunt, took sides with the Repub- 
licans, and was induced to secretly join a league of 
desperate malefactors who had in view the establish- 
ment of the long-dreamed-of republic in Italy. In 
my youthful ignorance, I knew nothing of the means 
by which they intended to accomplish their object, for 


Fioro d’Arancio 


2$t 


their action seemed confined to datibing in black paint 
upon the walls and pavements of the principal cities 
such words as ‘Down with the royal robbers ! Long 
live the Republic !’ In every town where elections 
took place the ominous writing on the wall appeared, 
but the authorities were never able to detect its 
mysterious authors. With old Lady Marshfield, whose 
eccentric support of all sorts of wild schemes is well 
known, and who lived in Florence at that time, I joined 
this secret league at a meeting held in a house on the 
Passeggio in Livorno, only a few doors from where I 
lived when we spent so many sunny hours together. 
A month later, however, at a reception one night at 
the British Embassy at Rome, I found myself chatting 
with the Marquis Montelupo, His Majesty’s Minister 
for Foreign Affairs. Having obtained my sanction, 
he next day called upon me; but his attitude had 
changed, for he accused me of being one of the ring- 
leaders of this mysterious gang, and declared that he 
would order my arrest if I did not consent to become 
a spy in the service of the Ministry. He saw, I 
suppose, that I was young, attractive, and could 
possibly obtain knowledge of certain secrets which 
^would be of use to him. In vain I pleaded, even upon 
my knees, but he was obdurate. He intended, he said, 
to stamp anarchism out of Italy, and told me that 
to avoid imprisonment and disgrace I must furnish 
complete reports of the intentions and doings of my 
associates. At last — well, at last I was forced to 
-consent.” 

“You became a spy?” 

“Yes,” she answered hoarsely. “I became a mean, 
despicable traitor, a wretched, soul-tortured woman, 
whose denunciations caused the arrest and imprison- 
ment of the more dangerous members of the gang, 
while at the same time, moving in the diplomatic 
circle in Rome, I furnished constant reports to Monte- 
lupo of the feeling existing towards Italy. Friendless 


Fioro d’Arancio 


292 

and helpless, I became that man’s catspaw. He held 
me for life or death. He spread reports about me, 
vile scandals which caused respectable people to shun 
me, but increased my popularity among the faster 
set in Rome and Florence, to whom I became known 
as the Contessa Funaro, although I was unmarried. 
When I protested, he merely laughed in my face, 
saying that he had done so for political reasons, 
because it had got abroad that I was in the pay of 
the Ministry, and if I showed myself to be a gay, 
heartless woman, instead of a patrician diplomatist, 
this rumour might be refuted. So, compelled to suffer 
this indignity in silence, and maintain the ignominious 
part he had allotted to me, I went to Livorno under 
the assumed name of Fanetti, and attended the con- 
stant meetings of the league which were taking place 
there. Was it any wonder that I should, under such 
circumstances, actually become an Anarchist? Among 
the members of this band of secret assassins — an off- 
shoot of the dreaded Mafia — was a girl named Vitto- 
rina Rinaldo, who, having ascertained by some means 
that Nenci and Malvano, then in England, had misap- 
propriated the greater part of the funds of the league, 
resolved to travel to London and denounce them. 
This she did, being accompanied thither by Captain 
Tristram, who had been induced to join us by Lady 
Marshfield, and, I suppose, with some vague hope that 
the knowledge thus acquired might be of service to 
the British Foreign Office. Vittorina and myself had 
taken the oath at the same meeting of the league, 
and had on that night received from Nenci, the leader, 
rings of exactly similar pattern — 'marriage rings’ he 
laughingly termed them. Well, you are aware of 
that scoundrel’s devilish ingenuity. It was he who 
had made those rings so that by a mere pressure of 
his hand upon the ring the poison was injected, and 
the girl’s life taken. You know how cleverly circum- 
stantial evidence was fastened upon her friend. From 


Fioro d’Arancio 


293 


recent inquiries I have discovered that Vittorina’s 
relations on her mother’s side were English, and had 
a villa up at Como, and that Major Maitland, having 
a couple of years before appropriated a large sum of 
money belonging to her, was no doubt an accessory 
to her death, for he has never been heard of since the 
night of the crime. Remember that his photograph 
was found among her possessions, and that he was 
no doubt with Nenci awaiting her arrival that night 
at Charing Cross.” 

“There seems to be little doubt, from the fact that 
Nenci gave you a similar ring, that he intended you 
should share the same fate as Vittorina,” her husband 
oberved, marvelling at her story. 

“Certainly he did,” she answered. “Time after 
time I strove to free myself from the fetters ever 
galling me and driving me to desperation, but Monte- 
lupo was always inexorable. He loved Vittorina, I 
afterwards discovered, for it was he who had written 
that mysterious letter signed ‘Egisto/ and he was 
determined to avenge her murder. Like ourselves, 
he was utterly unaware of the identity of the assassin. 
Now, however, that you have supplied the informa- 
tion wanting, and the culprit has paid the penalty; 
now that Malvano, the man who so cleverly acted as 
secret agent of the Embassy in London, while the 
same moment he was plotting against the State, and 
his cunning companion, Romanelli, have been arrested, 
tried at Rome, and will spend the remainder of their 
lives in imprisonment on Elba, my master has given 
me my freedom. I am free to love you, Nino.” 

“But the little marble image?” he said. “Why 
was that deadly thing so ingeniously contrived?” 

“In order to strike a blow which was intended 
should paralyze the monarchy and cause a revolu- 
tion in Italy,” she answered quickly. “In the blue 
boudoir in the Quirinal, on a sideboard behind the 
Queen’s private writing-table, there stands a tiny 


294 


Fioro dArancio 


but exactly similar bust. In collusion with one of 
the royal servants, it was proposed to exchange this 
image for the one invented by Nenci and Malvano, 
so that when His Majesty joined the Queen one night 
after dinner, both would be blown into eternity.” 

“Then, by your efforts, and by the imminent risks 
you ran among that desperate gang, you averted the 
terrible catastrophe — you, indeed, saved Italy.” 

“I suppose I did,” she said* “At that time political 
feeling ran high, and such a blow at the monarchy 
would have undoubtedly given the Republicans and 
Anarchists the upper hand. But I do not now regret,” 
she added, a look of supreme happiness lighting up 
her beautiful countenance — “I do not regret, Nino, 
because I have secured your true, honest love.” 

“I believe in your honesty, darling, for I know 
how terribly you have suffered,” he exclaimed, 
drawing her closer to him, until her head fell upon 
his shoulder. Those who now seek to besmirch your 
good name shall answer to me.” 

Their hands clasped, their eyes exchanged a love- 
look, long, deep and intense. Then her eager lips 
met his in one fierce passionate kiss. 

“The years of my bondage are like some half-re- 
membered hideous nightmare, Nino,” she murmured, 
still gazing full into his eyes. “But it is all finished; 
for you, my husband, true, patient, and forbearing, 
placed in my hand a weapon against my enemies; 
you brought back to me a renewed desire for life 
and its pleasures ; and you gave me deliverance from 
the evil that encompassed me. Truly a perfect peace 
is ours, for the dark Day of Temptation has waned, 
and has given place to a bright and blissful dawn.” 


THE END 



















































































































































































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